


Children Born of Ice

by Morganas_Shadow



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, FACE Family, Ice Skating, M/M, Multi, Olympics, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:12:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1984215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morganas_Shadow/pseuds/Morganas_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred is a figure skater training for the Olympics, who unfortunately has to share a rink with his brother's hockey team. Aside from Matthew, the team looks down on his sport, and his fathers aren't helping with the stereotypes. Alfred's rivalry is strongest with the team's co-captain, Ivan-the only other student who might be good enough to compete on the international stage one day. Given their different sports, Alfred doesn't understand where the animosity stems from, until Ivan reveals that he is an ex-ballet student who desperately misses the arts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling Out of Toe Loops

 

Alfred gears himself up for his fifth attempt at the jump with the determination of someone who had fallen on their ass the previous four times. He ignores the cold biting at his cheeks in favour of paying greater attention to the edges of his blades digging into the ice as he picks up speed. He loves his afternoon practices with his coach, and he loves competitions, but his favourite time to skate is during these early hours where there is nothing but him and the ice and his own brilliance. And technically his father, but he's usually asleep before Alfred even hits the ice. Not that he can blame Arthur, because it takes a special kind of person to want to wake up at three o'clock in the morning to skate.

He pushes all of his thoughts aside as he pulls himself around the corner, pushing faster and faster until he digs in his toe pick and flies into the air. The quad lutz goes flawlessly: tight, clean, perfect. The scorpion turn landing that he's been trying to convince his coaches to put in his routine, however, is just shy of disaster. He does manage to stick the landing this time, saving him from a painful fall, but his ankle wobbles twice and the turn lacks finesse. He lets himself spin out and then starts to prep for a sixth attempt when he is interrupted by a shout from the side of the rink.

"Alfred!"

He represses a groan. His Papa's voice can only mean one thing: his ice time is up, and it's time for Mattie's ice hockey practice. With an exaggerated air of resignation, he slows and skates over to the boards where Francis is standing.

"How was practice today, mon puce?" Francis asks.

Alfred glares. "You know I hate when you call me that."

Papa pretends to look affronted. "I cannot imagine why not. Would you prefer something else?"

"Perhaps something that doesn't mean some form of vermin?"

"Is Arthur asleep again?" he asks, already suspecting the answer. Sure enough, there on the bleachers is a mop of highly untidy blonde hair dozing in a nest of insulated clothing. Arthur never could handle the chill of the rink, and the sight makes both of them smile. Alfred sits and starts unlacing his skates, rubbing the arches of his feet, and Francis presses a mug of coffee into his hands. He nods his thanks, lets the bitter liquid run over his tongue. His Papa always did make the best coffee, rich and strong. Mattie must have already headed to the locker room, he notes with regret. He'd been hoping to see his brother today and wish him luck on his game.

He finishes tying his boots and starts up the bleachers to shake his Dad awake so he can catch an hour or two of sleep before school starts. Unfortunately, this plan is interrupted by several loud shouts from the new occupants of the ice. He curses under his breath, and it takes all of his self control not to turn around and look at them. Once he makes eye contact with them, all his self control flies out the window, and that's not something he can afford now. Not with the Olympic trials less than two months away. Not now.

"Look, it's the little skating fairy!"

"Ready to join Disney on ice, Alfairy?"

"Are you as queer as your uniform?"

The logical part of his brain is telling him  _They're not worth it_  and  _How many Olympics have they qualified for_  and  _These insults aren't even clever!_  But it was so hard to ignore the fact that dim-witted or not, they were still jeering at him. Steeling himself, he shook his dad's shoulder.

"C'mon, Dad, wake up."

"Mmm."

"Dad, let's go."

"Hmm."

"Arthur!"

"Alfred? What, what is it? And how many times have I told you not to use our first names?"

"Of course it's my bad manners that wake you up," Alfred muttered. "Dad, my practice time's up. Mattie and Papa are here."

"Oh. Do you want to go to the car, maybe catch a bit of sleep before school?"

"Please."

His dad starts to gather his coat around him, checking that Alfred still has his skate bag, mumbling questions like  _Do you have your skates? and What about your legwarmers?_ and  _Did Francis bring you coffee again? I keep telling him not to, the caffeine will dehydrate you_ , completely oblivious to the hostility of the players on the ice, skating in lazy circles as the puck sails from one of them to the other.

Alfred takes the bleachers two at a time on the way down, bounding down them in an effort to get out of there as quickly as possible. He is delayed, however, by his father's considerably slower steps and brief, murmured conversation with Papa. He bounces from foot to foot, jittery in his desperation to get to the car faster. Arthur notices his little dance of anticipation, and, grumbling, at last starts in the direction of the rink doors. The hockey players, however, cannot resist one final jab before they leave.

"Hey, Alfred, are you as gay as your fathers?"

Alfred snaps. He charges straight at them, ready to vault over the boards and beat them to a bloody pulp; he doesn't care if they're wearing padding, he is strong, you don't win four Junior Olympic gold medals and an invitation to the real deal if you're weak, he's going to destroy them. He can feel something-no, someone, probably his dad-dragging at his clothes, but it is not enough, not nearly enough to hold him back. He can hear someone yelling  _Francis_! and a second pair of hands join the first, desperate to keep him from reaching the ice and getting himself disqualified from his dream. He is only stopped when a pair of hands meet his shoulders, pressing back with a force almost equal to his own, and he finds himself face to face with Mattie, who looks less than impressed.

"What the hell is going on?"

The other players don't even have the decency to look sheepish, and Mattie shakes his head.

"Laps. All of you. Go. Now."

One of them opens his mouth like he's about to protest, but quickly shuts it when Mattie points to the 'C' on his jersey. Mattie may not be god, but he is team captain, and when it comes to the starting lineup for today's game they might as well be the same thing. The two players that stand to either side of him hesitate a little longer and Matthew spins around in annoyance.

"What did I-oh. It's you two. You're fine, go shoot some warmup shots."

The two, a small blonde kid with a sweet smile who hasn't even finished putting on his helmet and gloves yet and a looming figure whose face is completely obscured by his mask skate off towards the goal.

"How come they get off easy?" Alfred demands of his brother.

"Because they were in the locker room with me when you started your suicide act. Do you want to get suspended? Go to jail for assault? _Get disqualified from the Olympics?_ "

"They insulted Dad and Papa."

Matthew's mouth sets in a grim line.

"Leave them to me, eh? I promise we'll get that sorted out."

Alfred is extraordinarily glad he is not on the hockey team right now. Mattie in a bad mood is scary.

"Anyway, in case I don't see you again, good luck at your game, bro."

"Don't let them rile you up so much next time. They're just idiots."

"More like bastards with big fat mouths," Alfred grumbles, but he nods anyway. Mattie claps him on the shoulder again and skates off to join the team as he glumly joins his fathers. Arthur gives him a pat on the shoulder and Francis ruffles his hair affectionately. Still, as he curled up in the backseat, all he could hear was the team jeering at his sport, tossing and turning in the backseat.

As a result of his fitful sleep, he dozes off during first period math class. His teachers are usually pretty lenient about his exhaustion early in the morning-they know his skating schedule is grueling-but they won't tolerate outright sleeping, and so he gets a lunchtime detention. The last thing he remembers is Felix rabbiting on and on about the slope of a function, and suddenly Kiku is shaking him awake.

"Alfred, I am terribly sorry to disturb you, but-"

"Mr. Williams-Jones. I expected better of you. I understand that your skating schedule is a most demanding one, but you should be able to succeed both academically and athletically."

"Mhm. Sorry, Mr. Wang."

"You're the spitting image of your father when you were his age. I vaguely recall his being unable to respect any authority figure as well."

"Listen, I get that I was sleeping in class. Whatever. But leave your weird personal issues with my dad out of it, please."

"Lunchtime detention. 12:15. And count yourself lucky it wasn't after school, which would cut into your training time."

Alfred knows he should cut his losses and bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from screaming some other choice insults at Wang Yao, math teacher and evil demon. Instead, he gathers his belongings and stalks out of the room with whatever dignity he can still muster when the bell rings. Kiku hurries after him.

"Alfred! Alfred, please wait up!"

He obediently slows. He might hate his dad, and Dad might hate Mr. Wang, but he could never hate Kiku. He's been too good of a friend these past few years.

"Dude, I'm sorry, I just-"

"I understand. My father, he can be...difficult to deal with."

"I just-I wouldn't care so much if he told me off for not paying attention or whatever. Like, I know I deserved that, it's just that with him it always has to be personal. He always has to drag my dad into it somehow, and I'm sick and tired of people dragging my dad into things."

"Something occurred at the rink this morning?"

"Just the hockey team."

"Ah."

"They...they made a comment about my dads. I don't care what they say about my skating or whatever, I just want them to leave my family out of it."

"Sometimes people are just narrow-minded, Alfred."

"Yeah, but I'd appreciate if they could be narrow-minded somewhere else."

Kiku gives him a long look.

"I mean, if they wouldn't be narrow minded at all," he hastily amends.

"That's not what you meant."

"No, no it's not," Alfred sighs. "It's just-for once, I want them to understand what asshats they're being because they understand, not because Mattie makes them skate extra laps or whatever."

"If you are motivated by vengeance, it will surely consume you."

"I don't want that either! I just-forget it, Kiku. You're right."

Kiku stares at him again, but mercifully drops the subject. They fall into step beside Felix and Toris, and take their places at the cluster of desks where Michelle is already sitting, adjusting one of her hair ribbons. As soon as she catches sight of them, she excitedly waves and offers them a lollipop from her "Sack of Snacks."

"I swear you have some kind of infinite ammo code on this thing," Alfred mutters as he takes a Snickers bar.

Michelle laughs and Kiku nods in agreement. Felix and Toris are too immersed in their debate between the merits of bubblegum and bubblegum flavoured lollipops. Toris is firmly on the side of bubblegum, to which Alfred heartily agrees, whereas Michelle and Felix are stalwart defendants of lollipops. Their conversation is cut off, however, by the flustered arrival of their teacher, the ever-polished Mr. Edelstein.

"Everyone sit down, please."

This request was absolutely unnecessary; from the moment the bell rang, all of them have been glued to their chairs. One simply does not mess around in Mr. Edelstein's literature class. It is a Thing That Is Not Done. Without even bothering to take roll call, he writes Themes on one side of the board and Symbolism on the other. Alfred normally isn't a fan of English class, but he's been enjoying Mr. Edelstein's course so far. It's easily one of the most challenging he's taken, but they're studying Oscar Wilde right now, and Alfred actually finds himself liking the book. It's funny sometimes, and unlike Shakespeare, doesn't require endless hours painstakingly trying to figure out what this word or that word meant.

"Dorian Grey. What do you think he symbolises?" Mr. Edelstein postulates.

"Beauty," Michelle says straight off the bat. Mr. Edelstein nods, writing it on the board while motioning with his free hand for the class to keep going.

"Youth," suggests Belle, and her brother is quick to chime in with "A fickle nature."

"Good! Keep going!"

"Um-redemption?" Alfred winces at the voice of one of the hockey team members. Mathias, he thinks, or maybe Lukas. He isn't sure. And for some reason, he finds himself opening his mouth and jumping in with:

"Forbidden."

At this, Mr. Edelstein turns around. "Forbidden. Interesting. Why do you say that, Mr. Williams-Jones?"

"Well, I-" he falters, losing his resolve. He's never been the brightest kid in the class. Usually, he jumps in anyway, but from the look in Mr. Edelstein's eyes he's just said something terribly wrong, and he's not a teacher to cross. But Kiku gives him an encouraging smile, and so he soldiers on.

"I thought it was pretty obvious that Basil and Grey loved one another. But they couldn't love one another because of where-or when-they lived, and so they decide not to do anything about it. And when Grey sees the ruined painting of it, he doesn't see his own wrongdoing, he sees Basil telling him that he's not worthy of his love. So he kills him, and it's that moment of jealousy and betrayal that he atones for at the end, not any of his other sins."

"How perceptive of you, Mr. Williams-Jones. You have looked at this piece with a strong level of sensitivity and precision. I encourage you to write about it for your paper, and to continue exploring this theme throughout the other books we will read. Well done."

His friends are all smiling now, looking as proud of him as if they'd said it themselves. He's about to relax and smile with them when the voice that makes his blood run cold comes from the back of the classroom.

"Well, Alfred would know much about gay love, da?"

 


	2. Scorpion

Mr. Edelstein carefully adjusted his spectacles. “Mr. Braginsky, I must warn you to tread very lightly. While all students are encouraged to think for themselves and share their opinions, even controversial ones, I will not tolerate prejudice in this classroom. Is that understood?” 

Ivan’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “I meant no disrespect. It is well known that Alfred and Matthew have two fathers, I only wondered if Alfred knew from experience.” 

Mr. Edelstein folded his arms and stared at Ivan, but only for a second more. With one last wary look, he turned back to the whiteboard and began drawing arrows between the themes, speaking rapidly about the connections the class thought Wilde might have been trying to have his readers draw. Or something. Alfred really wasn’t sure, because he’d stopped paying attention the moment Ivan had spoken. 

Next to him and Matthew, Ivan was easily the most talented ice-sports guy at their school. Alfred loathed to admit it, but Ivan might even be better than his brother. It helped that he was far larger than any higschooler had a right to be (seriously, what steroids did they feed their children in Russia? You could call it a stereotype all you wanted, but after four Junior Olympics, he thought it was a little more than that.) But more than his sheer size was the casual violence he brought to the ice. Matthew was a speedster, but he could definitely pull of some strong checks. When he hit you, you’d feel it-Alfred spoke from experience. But when he did hit you, you knew it was coming. He skated with purpose and aggression. When Ivan checked people on the ice...it was like hitting them wasn’t all that out of the ordinary for him, or even all that difficult. Sometimes he’d even be laughing or smiling, which Alfred found creepy as fuck. 

He was drawn out of his musings by a stern voice calling: “Mr. Williams-Jones.” 

It was all Alfred could do not to kick the desk in frustration. Twice in two periods had to be some kind of record for him, and if he got detention after school his coaches were going to _kill_ him. 

Swallowing, he turned to Mr. Edelstein. “Yes, sir?” He hoped deference would soften the blow.

“See me after class.” 

“Like, nice going Alfred! Do you want to really piss off Ludwig today or something?”

“No! It’s just-I can’t focus today. The qualifiers are too soon, I’m not ready for them!” 

Checking to make sure that Mr. Edelstein wasn’t looking, Michelle slipped him another Snickers bar with a wink. “Here, Alfred, have a Snickers.”

A smirk toyed at the corners of his mouth. “Why?”

“Because you act like Felix when you’re hungry.”

“How exactly do I act like Felix?”

“A melodramatic diva who is constantly on the verge of some artistic crisis.”

“I take offense to that!”

“Yeah! What he said!” 

“Mhm. Riiiight. The two of you aren’t similar _at all._ ” 

“Oh, up yours, Chelle.” 

“Yeah, Chelle, totally not cool!”

“Don’t call me Chelle!”

Kiku fiercely dug his elbow into Alfred’s ribs and Toris tugged on Felix’s sleeve. The group obediently quieted down; currently those two were the only ones with above average GPAs and they didn’t want to risk pissing off their free homework tutors. 

When the bell rang, Kiku offered to wait, but Alfred waved him and the rest of his friends on, mouthing _I’ll catch up later!_ to them as they headed out. He rocked forward onto the balls of his feet and sank back onto his heels as he waited for Mr. Edelstein to finish gathering up his papers, furtively glancing at the clock every few seconds. 

“I’ll write you a pass, you know, you don’t have to worry about being late.”

Alfred flushed. “Sorry, I didn’t wanna look impatient, I’m just nervous about-”

“I understand. I want to commend you on your fine work in class today. Your comment about which actions Grey shows remorse over was the most in depth part of conversation we’ve had in this class all year.”

“Mr. Edelstein? Am I in trouble? Because if not, can I-”

“Talking with a teacher can mean more than trouble.”

“It can?”

“Usually it doesn’t,” Mr. Edelstein conceded. “But in this case, yes.”

Alfred tugged at his sleeve. “What did you want to talk about, then?”

“You seemed most uncomfortable after Mr. Braginsky’s comment. Understandably, it was completely out of line. Does this sort of thing happen often?” 

“You’re not going to give me detention?”

“As I understand it, you’ve already been given a lunchtime detention, and I don’t particularly want Ludwig cutting my head off. I like it where it is, and so does my wife.”

“You know Ludwig?”

“Mr. Williams-Jones, you never struck me as the modest type. Do try and remember sometimes that you are a future Olympian, and that many details of your private life are well known to members of the general public,” he remarked dryly.

“Oh. Right. I mean, that’s cool that people keep up with my training.”

“But I also happen to know Ludwig personally. He is a cousin of mine, and I attended graduate school with his brother, although how that man managed to get in…”

“Sure. Do you want me to tell him you say hello?”

“That would be very kind of you. Tell him Roderich says hello, and that both he and Elizaveta pass on their heartfelt love to Gilbert.”

“‘Kay. Anything else?”

“Yes. I’ve already told you you have a pass for your next class, why are you in such a hurry to leave? Anyway, I was concerned by your reaction to Mr. Braginsky’s comment. Does this sort of thing happen often?”

Alfred shrugged. “I’m used to their comments.” 

“Mr. Williams-Jones, I do not appreciate your casual attitude towards-”

“Really, Mr. Edelstein, it’s okay. Kind of comes with the territory of being-”

“-bullying, the school takes these kinds of things very seriously-”

“-a male figure skater, kind of like a guy who does ballet or stuff.” 

“-you shouldn’t _have_ to expect things like that, that’s not-”

“Mr. Edelstein!” 

The teacher’s lips pursed, and although he resolutely refused to look away from Alfred, he did have the decency to blush. 

“I don’t really care all that much. I mean, nothing they say is going to change anything about me, whether I’m straight or not, or whether I skate or not, or whatever. I mean, the best thing they’re going to be are campus town hockey players, and I’m going to the Olympics because _I’m just that awesome._ ” 

“You are...undoubtedly one of the strangest students I have ever had the pleasure of teaching.”

“I’m not strange, I’m an outlier!” 

“Mr. Williams-Jones, do you know what an outlier is?”

“Strange means you’re an outcast, in a bad way. An outlier means you’re better than everybody else in the room.”

“….Fine, then, an outlier. But if these students’ comments really don’t bother you, why were you unable to pay attention for the remainder of my class?”

Alfred grimaced. “They pulled my family into their stupid insults. I don’t like it when they do that.” 

“Understandably. Few people would.”

“Is that all, Mr. Edelstein? I think if I run, I can still make it to half of chem.” 

“Yes, yes, go. But if you ever need someone to talk to, I have two fully functional ears. All those rumours about me bathing in the blood of students are only half-true.”

“You bathe in the blood of students!?”

“Only the ones I don’t like.”

“Oh. That must be hard to get out of your towels.”

Roderich shook his head, signing the paper with a flourish. “Go to class, Mr.-”

“Alfred.” 

“Go to class, Alfred. And remember that some of us are rooting for you.”

“Mhm. Thanks, Mr. Edelstein.” 

And with that, Alfred grabbed the note and his bag and took off for the stairs of the science wing, leaving Roderich behind in the classroom staring at the door in amused bewilderment. 

“Just like him,” he murmured. “No wonder Ludwig calls him his protégé.”

Alfred, however, did not overhear, as he was already halfway to chemistry. When he burst in, red-faced but thankfully not sweaty, he pressed the note into Ms. Lin-Wang’s hand. She didn’t even bother reading it before waving him towards the lab tables  where Matthew is already waiting. 

“What took you so long?” Matthew hissed.

“Mr. Edelstien wanted to talk to me,” Alfred replied with a shrug.

“Oh my _god,_ Alfred, please tell me you didn’t get a detention.”

“No, although Yao gave me a lunchtime one.”

“Oh. Dad’s gonna kill you for that, I hope you know.”

“Eh, with any luck he won’t find out.”

“Yao’ll mention it to him at their next custody meeting, I promise.”

“Yao gives out like, forty detentions a day. I doubt it means that much.” 

“Yeah, but it’s _you._ He never passes up an opportunity to make Dad’s life hell.” 

Alfred grimaced. “Anyway, what are we doing?”

Matthew adds a few more drops of the clear liquid to the blue one in the beaker. No change. Swearing viciously under his breath, he writes something down and tries again, adding just as little liquid as he did the first time. Still no change. He thumbs through his notes, trying to figure out where the mistake is, when Alfred taps the page. 

“You converted the moles wrong. It should be…” here he crosses out some of Matthew’s work and writes above it in blue pen. Double checks his own calculation, then crosses out his own previous work and tries it again. Still no dice, but he succeeds on the third try, to Matthew’s eternal gratefulness. Their work was becoming messy on the point of being illegible. Alfred fills the graduated cylinder with more acid and is about to tip in the next few drops when suddenly his elbow is jostled by a student walking by and the entire fifteen milliliters empties itself into the beaker. Matthew groans and very nearly puts his head in his hands, before remembering that the gloves he is wearing are covered in chemicals and this is probably a Very Bad Idea. The liquid had turned pink, as it was supposed to-but with that large of an acid addition, they would be unable to determine if their calculated predictions were correct. 

Alfred turned to see which of the students knocked into their elbow, about to demand an apology. The only student out of their chair is Ivan, who is rinsing beakers in the sink. His eyes narrow dangerously, and one of the members of the curling team who follows Ivan around like a kicked puppy actually trembles with fear. Stalking over to the sink, he grabs Ivan’s arm.

“You and I are gonna talk, after class.”  

“Why? Do you have some questions about the classwork you missed?”

“No, Einstein, I wanna talk about why you felt the need to fuck up my lab.”

“It was simple mistake, da? Easy for anyone to make.”

“Yeah, but funny enough, it wasn’t ‘anyone’ who made that mistake. So we’re gonna talk.”

“Alright. But I do not have a free block after this class. Perhaps during lunch, then?”

“Mr. Wang gave me detention,” Alfred grumbles.

Ivan smiled like someone had just promised him he was getting a puppy after school.  “Ah, you have been running your piggish little mouth again, haven’t you?”

“You leave my problem with Mr. Wang out of it, hear me?”

“But why? Surely you must hold some affection for him.”

Before Alfred can retort, the bell rings, and he returns to his brother’s lab table, shaking his head. They both worry their bottom lips, knowing their labs will be marked down because they weren’t able to prove their results, and they start to wordlessly gather their things. Beakers and cylinders get dumped in the sink to be washed off, Ms. Lin-Wang warning them not to get the chemicals on anyone’s hands and to please keep their gloves on until the end of the cleanup. Tables get wiped down, pens and notebooks stuffed in bags, lab packets heaped on her desk in a messy pile. Her mouth thins when Ivan walks by, but if she disapproves of his conduct in the lab she doesn’t say. 

Matthew mouths _Want me to take care of him?_ on their way out the door and jerks his head in Ivan’s direction, but Alfred shakes his head no. Ivan is something he has to deal with on his own. Even as Matthew departs for AP Government and Alfred heads towards the library-even if he doesn’t get any work done it’s a quiet place to sleep and think-he can’t shake the feeling that those empty purple eyes are still staring at him, and a Russian-accented voice follows him with _Mr. Wang….fathers...gay love...piggish_ echoing in his head. 


	3. When the Punches Hurt More Than Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred confronts Ivan about his behaviour in class, and an upcoming family dinner promises to end in disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge shout out and thank you to Espresso_Yourself, my wonderful, wonderful beta. Not only has she helped me fix all my godawful tense problems, she also has introduced me to Free!, shares my addiction to caffeine, and is a wonderful friend. We are currently co-authoring a project, so stay tuned!

The library was not oft-visited by the students of Wilson Regional High School. The books’ bindings were well worn and tattered and the pages dog-eared. The sunlight, tinged gold, filtered in through the high windows and illuminated the swirling dust motes that rose from the well worn furniture. Alfred made his way to the alcove near the back of the second floor, running his fingers over the spines of the books he knew well, despite never opening them. After all, he was buried deep in the recesses of Supreme Court Cases, whose books held no interest for him. He lay down upon the sofa, hearing the soft sigh of old cushions as it sank beneath him, launching a fresh wave of old paper dust into the air. He closed his eyes and drifted away on the scent of ink, sinking into ice flurries and the echoes of Ivan’s giggles.  

Alfred woke sweating. Peeling off his beloved bomber jacket and fanning his t-shirt away from him, he chanced a look at his cellphone. Twenty minutes to twelve. Not long enough to go back to sleep, but too early to go to his lunchtime detention. An alert beeped on the screen: 6 unread messages. Curious, he opened the message tab. 

**_Kiku: Alfred? Where are you? We were meant to study together._ **

**_Kiku: Alfred?_ **

**_Chelle: yeah, Al, where r u?_ **

**_Toris: u ok? u’ve been off today. Felix says hi._ **

And then two more from his brother:

**_Mattie: Al, u never told me what Mr. Edelstein wanted. u in trouble?_ **

**_Mattie: Leon’s doing dinner 2nite, not 2mrw. avoid talking abt detention_ **

****“Shit,” Alfred muttered. He hadn’t meant to forget about the study session, but he’d just been so tired. All he’d wanted was a nap. Instead he’d managed to spectacularly upset his friends, worry Mattie, and (although it hadn’t happened yet, he was sure of the oncoming doom) had received a personal invitation to The Dinner Party of Death. Fabulous. A quick mass message apology should suffice for his friends, although Kiku would want a more personal explanation later.

**_Alfred: sry guys fell asleep in the library. make it up after school?_ **

Followed by another reply to Mattie,

**_Alfred: dunno. just talked i’ll tell u what he said @ home. also, fuck, r u serious? shit-show of the century._ **

Flicking the sleep button on his phone, he tucked it into his back pocket, shrugged back into his bomber jacket, and headed off towards the dean’s office. He tapped on the door frame. 

“Um, Mr. Adnan?”

“...I swear to God, if it weren’t for the fact that all of his students score at least a 4 on the AP exams I would have fired him years ago…”

“Mr. Adnan?”

“That, and the fact that every time I’m about to he buys me some ridiculously extravagant present…”

“Mr. Adnan, it’s Alfred.”

“Hm? Oh, Alfred. Please pay no attention to my ramblings. What is it?”

“I’ve been given a lunchtime detention by Mr. Wang.”

“Again?” 

“Yeah, I kind of nodded off in class.”

Mr. Adnan muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Well, if his class is as boring as his presentations at staff meetings, I don’t blame you.” Alfred concluded that it must have been his imagination, because he cleared his throat and hand Alfred a signed pink slip. 

“Here. I presume he’s going to have you do homework again?”

“Probably. Well, um, anyway, I better-”

“Alfred?”

“Yeah?”

“Try not to get another one, hm? If he gives you a fifth before the fall term is up, you might have to serve an in-school suspension.”

“Right. No more detentions from Mr. Wang. Anything else?”

“No, go. Also, if you see Heracles, would you-”

“Who?”

“Mr. Karpusi.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure, I’ll send him in. Is he ‘getting fired’ again?”

“Sometimes, Alfred, you know entirely too much about the private lives of the faculty. Now scram!” he said, waving him out the door, although he smiled as he did so. 

Alfred disappeared with a wink and a wave. They both knew the day Mr. Adnan fired Mr. Karpusi was the day Matthew stopped eating maple syrup on his pancakes. Unfortunately for him, Mr. Wang was not in nearly as cheerful a mood. He was on the phone to someone, talking in loud, angry Chinese, as he stalked up and down the length of the room. Upon seeing Alfred, he pointed angrily at the empty desk and mimed writing with his free hand. Not wanting to risk getting another detention, Alfred hastened to the seat and pulled out his chemistry notes. For a minute, the air was thick with nothing but the scratching of his pencil filling in the gaps of Yao’s endless anger. He wasn’t usually a wagering man but he’d bet that the person getting a tongue lashing on the other end of the line was Leon. Or Lei Su, as Yao insisted he be addressed by. 

It was halfway through his detention when Yao finally hung up the phone. Alfred continued to work through balancing the equations, but his neck kept prickling oddly, and he looked up at the sensation. Yao was staring at him, not with anger as much as with fatigue. 

“Go,” he said. 

“Huh? But the-”

“Are you deaf, or mentally retarded? I said _go!_ ” 

Alfred ran. He pushed his way through the crowds of people gathering in the cafeteria, waiting in line for lukewarm mac and cheese and reheated corn dogs. He would have been fine with getting food from the lunch line, but Papa and Dad insisted that the boys bring their own lunches from home, due to ‘concerns over nutritional content.’ Honestly, Alfred thought that Dad need to get the stick out of his ass, but he couldn’t exactly complain when Papa made the lunches. Nothing like a home-baked croissant to brighten a really crappy day. Still wading through clusters of people, he spotted Chelle’s hair ribbon at a table far off to the left. Breaking into a jog (ignoring Mr. Zwingili’s cries of ‘No running in the cafeteria!’) he dropped into the chair next to Toris and across from Kiku.

“Al!” Toris exclaimed, the rest of the group quickly joining into a cacophony of greetings. 

“We weren’t expecting-didn’t you have lunchtime detention with Mr. Wang?”

“He spent all his time shouting at someone on the phone. I think it was Leon,” Alfred replied. “He’s coming for his week with us early.”

Felix and Chelle winced. Toris and Kiku at least hid their feelings a little bit better, but it was clear that none of them would want to be in his shoes right now. Alfred shrugged and started digging around in his bag for his lunch sack. He resurfaced with the wrinkled brown paper bag, only slightly squashed by his various textbooks, and said a quick prayer that it was Papa’s turn for lunches. He didn’t consider himself particularly religious, but one needed all the help one could get when it came to eating his dad’s cooking. Sure enough, as further confirmation that the world hated him, instead of fresh croissants or a croque monsieur, his lunch consisted of one very soggy, sorry-looking tuna sandwich. Alfred was about three seconds away from throwing a tantrum. Arthur _knew_ he hated tuna, it gave him an upset stomach on training days, it was _Mattie_ who liked tuna, and even then not all that much. He especially hated it when there was celery involved. 

Kiku had pushed his bento box towards him in invitation, and Felix, Toris, and Chelle had likewise offered him bits and pieces of their lunches, but he waved them all aside. He wasn’t certain if it was the tuna salad, or Ivan, or just the upcoming national qualifiers, but he felt like there was a large lump of coal sitting in the pit of his stomach. Eating was about last on his list of things he wanted to do right now. 

His thoughts were cut off by something bumping against his lips. 

“Here,” Chelle said, and when he opened his mouth to protest, she slipped the spoon inside. He smiled at the familiar flavours of ginger, garlic, and coconut. Her traditional shark chutney, now made with scallops due to a lack of readily available shark. He obediently chewed and swallowed, and when he opened his mouth to thank her, she merely took another spoonful and fed it to him. 

Felix took this opportunity to chime in. “We’re, like, worried about you, Al. I mean, you probs don’t feel super amazing right now because Mr. Wang’s, like, a total dick-” here he paused to giggle at his own joke, which led to Alfred and Chelle’s own riotous laughter and Kiku’s more dignified chuckles, carefully hidden behind his hand- “but you need to eat lunch,” he finished once they had calmed down enough to breathe normally again. 

Kiku was next to launch into the ‘take care of yourself’ tirade. “Alfred, everyone at this table is well aware of how much your skating means to you, and how disappointed you would be were you not able to perform your best due to a lack of proper nutrients. Although I cannot blame you for your rejection of your father’s preparation of tuna. It is a disgrace to the most noble of fish.” 

“But, um, guys, don’t you think you need to eat your own lunches?”

“If you take a little bit from each one of ours, there’ll be plenty to go around,” Toris jumped in before Alfred could further protest. Cracking a smile, he added, “Plus, my _Mociute_ is staying with us for a while. You could eat half my lunch and there’d be enough left over to feed everyone else at this damn table.” 

And so Alfred indulged them. Had he bothered looking over his shoulder, he would have noticed Ivan watching them a few tables over as he laughed at Felix’s animated jokes and let Chelle feed him scallop chutney as Kiku entertained them with stories of Yao’s complete inability to control their (rather large) family. Instead, he let himself be immersed in conversation until he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. 

“You wanted to do some of the talking?”

The cordial tone didn’t fool him. The invitation was as frosty as the cafeteria windows, and about as pleasant. Still, he did want to “talk” to Ivan, someplace without any witnesses. Certainly not the cafeteria, where staff members were bountiful.

“Yeah, I did. Braginski, let’s go outside.” Kiku grimaced in distaste, and Toris and Felix both shot him looks, eyebrows drawn tight together, and Felix nibbled mincingly on his nails (or, at least, doing a very good job of miming it. Alfred knew Felix was too vain to actually ruin his manicure). None of his friends were stupid, and they were familiar enough with social cues to know what ‘outside’ meant. Still, they knew how Alfred settled quarrels-the same way that the football team, and the lacrosse team, and the hockey team, and even the basketball team settled quarrels. Only Chelle latched onto his elbow. 

“Alfred, I swear to God, if you get out of this chair and go deal with him the way I _think_ you’re about to deal with him, I will kill you. And then I will borrow your dad’s old ‘Magyck and Alchemy’ book-”

“That’s for decoration only!” Alfred interjected, which she promptly ignored.

“-resurrect you, and let Matt, your dads, and your coaches kill you all over again. Don’t be _stupid._ ”

“Jesus, Chelle, chill out. We’re gonna just have a little talk outside.”

“Alfred Francis Williams-Jones. If you honestly think I’m stupid enough to think you’re only going to ‘talk’ to one another outside, you’re even dumber than Mr. Wang thinks you are, and I damn well will not ‘ _chill out!’”_

“Ouch. That was, like, a low blow, Chelle.”

“ _Don’t call me Chelle!_ What makes you think he won’t go to Mr. Adnan and say, ‘Hey, look, Alfred beat me up?’ Do you _want_ to get suspended? Expelled? Ooh, ooh, I know! How about _disqualified from the Olympics?_ How about _unable to compete in the dream I’ve been working towards since I was four years old?_ How about _kicked out of my career before I even turn eighteen?_ But if you want to, go right ahead, Alfred. Throw away everything you’ve been working towards, all the money Arthur spends paying for your lessons, all the time Francis spends making your costumes. Throw away whatever you damn well please.” And with that she stalked off towards the library. 

Ivan was still waiting, already walking towards the doors. His friends looked like they also wanted to voice several objections, but none of them said anything. Their eyes were giving him a warning, though. _Don’t get caught._

He followed Ivan out of the back doors of the caf into the crisp autumn air, and drew his bomber jacket a little tighter around himself. His sneakers crunched on the dead leaves that gathered on the footpath that cut to the athletic fields. Somehow the sound reminded him of stepping on the bones of small animals, each step releasing the scent of rotten plants and bonfire smoke. The smell of something dying. Of something already dead. 

They walked in silence for a while, Alfred following Ivan a few steps behind. He didn’t trust the bastard enough to turn his back to him. They reached the cluster of trees that is just out of visibility for the school, and Ivan wasted no time in ducking under the empty branches and turning to face Alfred, who stood there, fists balled and shifting from foot to foot. 

“What is wrong, Jones? You wished to be having the talk with me. Now I am here to be talking to you. Speak.” 

“First of all, it’s Williams-Jones to you. Secondly, like hell you tell me what to do.”

Ivan frowned in mock puzzlement. “It was your idea to be walking here.”

“Whatever, dude. The point is, you don’t fucking tell me when to talk and when not to talk.”

“Alright, then, Williams-Jones. You will be talking whenever you feel good and ready,” he replied, eyebrow lifted in false anticipation.

Alfred’s chest puffed outwards. “You smarmy little fucktard. I don’t know what the hell your deal is with me, but you leave your pathetic little twisted problem with my _dads_ out of it. In fact, Braginski, just stay away from my whole damn family, understood?”

Ivan blinked once, and then did something-perhaps the only thing-that Alfred was not expecting. He laughed. Not his usual creepy little giggle, the one he used while he tossed people left and right on the ice, an honest-to-God laugh. Alfred did not appreciate being mocked, and swung his fist towards Ivan’s face. It smacked into Ivan’s hand just inches from his jaw. The taller boy was wincing (as he should be-it wasn’t a gentle hit) but he had stopped Alfred’s punch. He had _stopped_ Alfred’s _punch._ Alfred had never met anyone even close to being how strong he was. Not even Mattie, for all that they were twins. He guessed from Ivan’s still-pained expression that he was still the stronger of the two, but he’d never met anyone who could stop one of his punches before. Ivan rubbed his palm as he started at Alfred, who was still panting.

“I will be letting you get away with that one,” he said, voice soft and dangerous. “I will not be so forgiving the next time that is happening. I am fearful that we have arrived at a grave misunderstanding. You think I am hating you because of your fathers?”

Alfred nodded once.

“That would be most hypocritical of me, da?” Ivan replied with a slight smile and-did Alfred just see him wink? He prayed that was a figment of his imagination. “Silly, silly Alfred. I am not detesting you because of your fathers. I am loathing you because you are a skater.”

“But why-”

“Why are you bothering to be asking?” 

And Alfred’s brain blew a fuse. He’d been trying to get Ivan to confess his diabolical plan-otherwise known as the guy’s petty problem with his family, but whatever, specifics were overrated-for the better part of ten minutes. Sometimes fists solved more fights than words.

And so he lunged at Ivan again. This time, the Russian seemed to be expecting it, and sidestepped his fist, then countered with one of his own. Alfred slid low into the dirt, then readied a left hook to strike for the groin area. But damn, Ivan had good reflexes. He’d leapt nearly a foot backward to avoid the hit. Probably a good thing for him, too, if he’d ever planned on having sex. Not that Alfred could think of anyone who would be willing to have sex with Ivan.

He straightened, shifting slightly from foot to foot as he tried to gage where Ivan’s blow would land. Ivan leaned in left, and Alfred almost fell for it, had he not seen Ivan’s fist fast approaching from the right in his peripheral vision. Instead, he reached out and latched on to Ivan’s elbow, simultaneously hitting Ivan in the jaw. He was right handed, so the punch understandably had less impact than he desired, but it was still enough to send Ivan stumbling back a few feet. He spat in his general direction, heart still thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings. To his horror, Ivan actually _laughed_ as he regained his footing, although he was noticeably rubbing his jaw and more than somewhat unsteady on his feet. 

“Silly, sweet, stupid Alfred. You are unaware of who I am, are you not?” 

Ivan reached over and patted him on the head before strolling off out of the trees. Alfred thought about following after him and making the other boy finish the fight, but once he was out of those trees, anyone in the school could see him. Suspension, as Mattie was always reminding him, was a Bad Thing. So instead, Alfred stomped back off towards the school. He dug in his back pocket for his phone, the copper-and-salt taste of sweat, blood, and adrenaline lingering on his lips. Waving the phone left and right to try and find the best signal pocket on campus, he pulled up the Google search bar and typed in “Ivan Braginski.” Thousands, if not millions of results, and most of them Facebook profiles of middle aged men. Certainly not what he wanted. He tried again, this time typing in “Ivan Braginski Russia.” Similarly unhelpful results, although this time Google came up with a suggestion for him: Did you mean “Ivan **_Braginsky_** Russia?” Figuring it was worth a try, he clicked on it. And the page flooded with Ivan.

Not just any Ivan-the right Ivan. _His_ Ivan. A Wikipedia article, a Wikia article, a link to something called the Bolshoi company, and hundreds of thousands of images. Curious, he clicked on the “Image” bar at the top and patiently waited for them to load. Most of them were of a younger-looking Ivan posing for headshots or smiling awkwardly at a microphone while plastic looking blonde women with their mouths open, probably asking him questions, stood next to him. Two lines of images down, though, he found what he was looking for. A black-and-white photo of Ivan, probably about fourteen or fifteen, clad in nothing but a pair of tights as he leapt into the air in a split. He must have been at least three feet off of the ground. The source for the image was listed as the ‘Bolshoi Ballet Company.’

Alfred felt cold at his realization. Ivan was a ballet dancer. Not just any ballet dancer, but apparently a successful, famous one. And from the thousands of results, a popular one in Russia, ballet capital of the world. 

_So why is he playing hockey? And why is he here, in the States?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: The “Braginski” vs “Braginsky” thing comes from the Polish/Russian last name variants. The -ski ending is Polish and the -sky ending is Russian. However, a lot of Russian immigrants changed the ending of their name to match that of their Polish counterparts when they emigrated to America, knowing that after WWII/during the Cold War, they’d be more welcomed.


	4. Firebird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred has a close call with a stranger, and The Dinner Party of Doom goes exactly as well as expected.

Alfred launched himself into the final minute of his routine. This was the most important part-he wanted to wow the judges with a strong finish and win the extra points for having jumps in the second part of his long program. Unfortunately, his earlier fight with Ivan and his Google search results were significantly cutting into the quality of his performance, and after the third run through, Ludwig called him over.

“Jones. That was the sloppiest performance I’ve seen from you in the last year. Explain.”

Alfred grimaced. “Nerves, I guess. About the trials and everything, you know?”

“Jones, I’ve been training you personally since you were six-”

“Shouldn’t it be time you start calling me Alfred, then?” he deadpanned.

“Don’t interrupt. I’ve never known you to get cold feet, you’re too damn talented and a little too cocky for your own good.”

“Leon’s coming for his week with us early.”

“Ah.” Ludwig looked like he’d accidentally stepped on a viper. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, you-”

“Ve! Alfred, Ludwig!” The shout came from the other end of the rink, where a small, brown haired figure stood waving excitedly. It was moving towards them at an frighteningly rapid pace, carrying in his arms an exorbitant amount of brightly coloured material, and for a moment Alfred feared a collision before he skidded to a stop.

“Ludwig, Ludwig! Alfred! Francis and I finished working on the artistic concept for your costume!” Here he shook out the multitude of fabric, and for a moment Alfred just stared.

“Ah, Feli, no offence to you or Francis-because God knows you can do more with fabric than I can-but what exactly is it?”

“A firebird, of course!” Feliciano beamed as he said it.

“Okay, but that really creates more questions than it answers.”

“Well, the choreography that I did with the arms reminded me a lot of wings, so I thought we’d go all the way and make you a bird! What do you think? Will you try it on?” Alfred normally adored Feli, but sometimes he could be a bit….much. Like right now, for instance. Right now, Feli, among other things, was giving him a very large headache. But if he said no, Feli would cry. And if he cried, Ludwig would be angry. And if Ludwig was angry, then he would be put through a training session from hell, which he really wanted to avoid right now. So all he did was hold out his arms, waiting for his inevitable demise via fabric, and headed off into the locker rooms.

Actually, he had to admit, the costume didn’t look that bad. He’d been expecting the worst-chicken that had been accidentally lit on fire, bright and garish and horrible. He wouldn’t deny that the costume is still as bright as the sun, nor would he deny that it is spectacularly over the top, but it is bizarrely flattering for all that. He is swathed in layers and layers of gossamer silk. The petals of translucent fabric are all exactly one hue apart, layered lighter and lighter, fading from crimson and scarlet to sunset orange and finally to bright blazing gold. The combination of layered fabric and the colours give him the illusion that he is made of feathers-and indeed, the huge half-cape that is truly made of feathers that makes the piece stand out. The wings are trimmed with rhinestones, enough to make them sparkle under the performance lights. Alfred thinks it’s a little gaudy, but then again, all skating costume are. And when he emerges from the locker room to show Ludwig and Feli, they both look at him with approval.

He pivoted this way and that as Feliciano touched the fabric here and there, making notes to adjust this or that, murmuring to Ludwig that they are going to paint his face and maybe his hair, too, to complete the illusion. He nodded in understanding, and his coaches gesture for him to take the ice again. Gritting his teeth, he tightened the laces on his skates for a final time and begun. Perhaps it’s the costume that made him feel as light as air, or perhaps it was just the rush of being able to skate again instead of being stuck with pins over and over. Either way, it was certainly the best run through he’s had all day.

Ludwig hds no complaints about the technical performance of it, aside from a pointer on a turn or a transition here or there, but Feli is far from happy.

“You are a bird,” he said in exasperation for what felt like the three hundred and forty-seventh time. In reality, it was only the twenty-first, but Alfred insists on counting the echoes of the little Italian’s voice booming around in his head.

“Perhaps you could try and act like one. A little lightness, if you will. Try holding that extension around the back corner again, I want you to extend your left arm…”

And so Alfred indulged him and ran the routine thrice more. It is a little after nine before they let him go home, and he is just heading out the door when he remembered the other thing he was supposed to do.

“Hey! Ludwig!”

The coach looked up from his notes reluctantly, vastly irritated that Alfred has not even left the building before causing more disruption.

“My teacher, Mr. Edelstein, said he knows you, yeah?”

“Roderich? You know Roderich?”

“Mm-hm. Anyway, he has a message for you. Said he and Elizaveta pass on their love to Gilbert. You know, if I’ve gotta talk to your friends for you, that’s pretty sad. Maybe you ought to invite them to dinner sometime soon or something.”

And he made a hasty exit. Papa and Dad both offered to pick him up, but he reassured him he’d be fine walking home. It was late, but the rink isn’t far from his house. There was already a thin layer of frost on the ground, and he grins at the prospect of the cold weeks ahead. Maybe the pond would freeze over.

He turned off of Walnut onto Mill and stopped in his tracks upon spotting a lone figure at the end of the corner. He felt his heart pounding against his ribcage, the air too thick as he shrunk back into the shadows. Something hot and heavy in his mind screamed for him to go on, he’s strong and fast, he can take this attacker. Something far more crystalline and logical told him to run, because that figure at the end of the street probably has a knife or a gun or maybe both, and he should leave now.

The figure turned, and for a split second Alfred thought he’d been seen-his heart stuttered like it had considered stopping, but then caught itself as the figure’s eyes glaze right over him. It’s definitely a man, and Alfred’s throat muscles were trying to work in his sandpaper mouth. He felt his phone buzz in his back pocket and thanked God that he’d left it on silent today. A shaft of light from a parting in the clouds caught the wisp of ice blonde hair and a broad face with a prominent nose, and Alfred’s heart did the strange little skipping thing again even as he let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The solitary figure at the end of the street is Ivna, and although Alfred wouldn’t be so crass as to pretend that he’s fond of that particular schoolmate, for the moment he was relieved. Ivan, only Ivan. He felt his phone buzz again. This brought him back down to earth for good this time and his fire roared red once more, ready to lunge out, fist his hands in Ivan’s shirt and demand explanations and answers and a fight. But Ivan tilted his head and then glided back into the shadows, unaware that he had been seen there in the moonlight for one vulnerable moment, and Alfred let the raging scarlet ebb out of his fingertips.

  
  


By the time he gets home, there is already a small suitcase set resting in the entry hall to their house and the sound of scraping chairs and cutlery from the back room.

“I’m HOME!” he bellows as a greeting to his family, and a small, dark-haired head immediately appears from the doorway.

“Al!” the newcomer shouts, and rushes over to ruffle his younger sibling’s hair. The effect is rather ruined by the fact that Alfred has to duck down in order for Leon to reach his head, even on tiptoe. Francis interrupts the moment by sticking his head out the door to the dining room and telling Alfred to please come in, the dinner’s getting cold. Stomach growling, he concedes.

Leon followed him back through the double doors into the dining room, and Alfred froze in his tracks, wondering if it was too late to back out of the doors and run straight out into the street. Their dining room, seldom used because they hardly ever had time to have a formal sit down dinner, had been set with two extra places. There was Arthur at the head of the table, Francis on his left and Matthew on his right. An empty place had been left for Alfred next to his twin, and a half eaten plate of food indicated where Leon had been sitting. And at the other head of the table sat Mr. Wang. Alfred almost wished he’d taken his chances and picked another fight with Ivan. Left without a route of escape, he gingerly took his seat opposite Leon and tried to avoid eye contact. Great. The Dinner Party of Doom. When did the executions for the entertainment of the masses begin? And for you betting men and women, whose head shall be rolling first? 

The first few minutes were filled with nothing but the wet sounds of chewing and the chink of cutlery against porcelain. He bumps arms more than once or twice with someone reaching for a dish or cutting his chicken, and the apologies ar mumbled and elbows tucked in twice as tight in hope of avoiding the mistake again. The scents of Francis’s kitchen might be wonderful, but the conversation is far from it, mostly because it is entirely non-existent. Alfred helps himself to a second portion of chicken and scalloped potatoes, and Mr. Wang snorts. Arthur’s grip on his fork tightens enough to whiten the skin around his knuckles. Mr. Wang says nothing more, although he chews the inside of his cheek when Alfred gets a third portion. Leon attempted to diffuse the tension by drawing everyone’s gaze away from-well, everyone else-by instead calling attention to something safely neutral and innocuous, like the frescos.

“Mr. Kirkland-Bonnefoy, I love what you’ve done with the dining room. It’s spectacular.”

“Please, Leon-” at Mr. Wang’s outraged expression and little cry of disgust, he hurriedly self-corrected-“Lei Su, call me Francis. And I’m glad you like it, I decided I wanted something very Art Nouveau; you know, it’s based off of the Wisteria dining room, which is extraordinary because…”

Alfred felt the atmosphere in the room fade away. Francis could talk about art for hours, and the decoration in the dining room is a safe, neutral topic. Matthew, even though Lord knew he’d heard the explanation of the Art Nouveau trend a thousand times, forced a smile on his face, and Arthur was making a valiant effort to look like he was paying attention.

All was peaceful for exactly three minutes and forty-seven seconds, when Alfred reached for another helping of food and Mr. Wang made the same little sound of contempt. Arthur had had enough, it seemed, and slammed his cutlery down on the table with an almighty bang.

“What, exactly, is your problem?” he hissed.

“My problem, as you have so eloquently put it, is that your son is a selfish glutton,” Mr. Wang retorted as Alfred’s cheeks were stained the colour of red wine with shame.

Francis consequently raised his voice, hoping to cut off the argument before it really started. “You know, it was a novel concept, designing the room as a whole set-”

“A glutton!” exclaimed Arthur, ignoring Francis while simultaneously raising his own voice. “He needs extra food for training!”

“Oh, yes, training this and training that. Did your son tell you he fell asleep in class today because of this training?”

“You fell asleep in CLASS?”

“-and really, the dining room should be the centre of an-”

“-for, like, TWO minutes, it’s not even a big deal-”

“-oh, and that’s not even COUNTING the disrespect he shows his teachers-”

“DISRESPECT? LIKE HELL ANY SON OF MINE SHOWS DISRESPECT, I TAUGHT THEM BETTER THAN THAT-”

“Dad, calm down-”

“AND REALLY, THE CARVINGS ON THE LAMPS-”

“PLEASE, YOUR SONS WERE BORN KNOWING DISRESPECT, BECAUSE THEY HAD A FAILURE LIKE YOU FOR A FATHER-”

“Arthur, perhaps now is NOT THE TIME-”

“THIS ISN’T HELPING-”

“A FAILURE? I’LL SHOW YOU FAILURE-”

“YES, A FAILURE WHO CAN’T DISCIPLINE HIS CHILDREN, WHO ABANDONED HIS FIRST FAMILY, AND WHO FORGETS ABOUT HIS OTHER SON BECAUSE ONE OF THEM HAS DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR ABOUT BEING AN OLYMPIAN!”

“GET OUT, GET OUT OF MY HOUSE YOU FUCKING SLAG-” and the rest of Arthur’s sentence was swallowed by what sounded like a dry, choking sob. “Like I would-like I would ever-”

Matthew stared at Mr. Wang with such reproach that the older man quaked a little bit. Francis looked from one member of the family to the next, as if unable to comprehend how dinner had devolved into such a disaster. Leon was resolutely staring at his plate, unable to look father or either half-brother in the eye. And Alfred-Alfred was very quietly trying not to die with the feeling that he had caused all of the trouble in the first place. Mr. Wang, at last, seemed to take the hint and stood. With as much dignity as he could muster, he threw his napkin down on the table with palpable disgust.

“Lei Su, have a good week,” he said, and strode out of the room.

Leon sighed and looked over at Arthur, who currently had his head buried in his hands.

“Go,” Arthur said, waving at him. “I can’t stop you from saying goodbye.”

Leon, too, hurried out of the dining room. Francis put his arm about Arthur, Matthew talking in nonsensical words in a hope to calm him. Alfred decided that now would be an excellent time to go to the bathroom, and excused himself. Funny how even muffled by carpet, his footsteps seemed to have an echo. An echo that was increasingly getting drowned out by human voices. Curious, he lingered in the doorframe to the sitting room, perhaps hoping to catch Mr. Wang making another snarky comment about his father so he could jump in and defend Arthur. Like Arthur had done for him.

Instead, the sight both surprised and touched him. Mr. Wang, for all that he is much taller than his son, is leaned forward so that all of his weight falls forward, head resting on Leon’s shoulder for support. His eyes clenched tight shut, a man crying and pretending he is not. Alfred didn’t understand the words that were being said, but he understood their meaning. I will miss you. I love you. I wish we didn’t have to do this.

He backed away, all the fight gone out of him, replaced instead with a feeling that he has seen something that he has no right to, and he slipped into the bathroom, letting the door click shut on his intrusion.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my reviewers-thank you so much, I love you all-pointed out to me that Mr. Wang comes across as very harsh and unsympathetic. As we see some of the POVs from other, older characters, you'll see more of him. But right now, we see him through Alfred's eyes, and Alfred doesn't have the whole picture.


	5. Fester

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I would like to apologise for being an asshole and vanishing for so long. I've been really busy lately, college apps and classes and standardised tests, yay! Hope you guys are having a good fall and are excited for sweater weather-huge thanks again to my beta Espresso_Yourself, without whom my tenses would be a mess and this plot would be impossibly confusing. Happy Writing!

Alfred dreamt fitfully of Ivan that night, standing in the frosty darkness. He felt someone put a hand against his forehead somewhere in between the world of sleeping and waking, and he pushed it away before falling back into that land of slumber. 

The alarm blared predictably at 2:45. He groaned as he fumbled on the nightstand for his glasses, padding towards the bathroom. He didn’t bother switching on the light, a decision he regretted when he splashed water on his face and missed more than he hit, leaving his hair sopping wet and the bathroom a mess. The bathroom can be someone else’s problem, he decided, someone more responsible and less tired than he is. His hair, though, was dripping little splashes of water down his back, and he shivered at the cold tendrils on his spine. No matter. Private practice in fifteen minutes. Private practice in fifteen minutes, he chanted to himself, seemingly unaware that he is speaking aloud.

He knocked on his parent’s bedroom door, and when there was no answer he let himself in. 

“Papa?” he called. “Dad? I have to be at the rink in ten minutes.” 

To his surprise, it was not Arthur but Francis who rose from the bed. Francis is never-and never will be-a morning person, but this morning he looked particularly awful; he resembled something out of a horror movie marathon. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy with lack of sleep and his usually perfect hair was a matted mess. 

“ _Alfréd, je suis désolé, mais-_ ”

“Papa? You’re doing the French thing again.” 

“Ah.” Here his father let out an enormous yawn. “I’m sorry, Alfred, but we’re going to have to go to the rink a little late this morning-I’ll take you. Arthur is...not in a good place.”

“Papa, I have to-”

“No buts.”

“I didn’t _say_ but, I said I have to,” Alfred grumbled.

“Then no ‘have to’s. No one is happy after last night, and believe it or not, you need sleep.” 

“I need-”

“To sleep. I’ll come in a little before four.”

Alfred scowled, but he knows Francis would give up his wine cellar before he allowed either of his sons to push him around. Not that Mattie ever tried, but still. Heaving a sigh, he shuffled back to his room, stubbing his toe on the doorframe and trying not to curse too loudly. He thought he only woke Leon, judging by the sleepy mumbling emanating from the guest room, and he figured he’d apologise in the morning. The room was too dark for him to see much of anything, and he almost didn’t realise he’d sat down on the wrong bed at all, until he leant back and felt a bony, warm lump beneath him. He let out a squeak (he would firmly deny it, later, of course) and stood to return to his own bed, mumbling apologies to Mattie all the way. 

His heavy-sleeping brother, though, didn’t even wake properly, instead choosing to resolve the problem by pulling Alfred down onto the mattress. So he found himself nestled in between Kumajiro and Matthew, and this time when he slept he did not dream. When Francis shook him awake, there was almost something like guilt written on his face, as though he did not want to wake him at all that morning. Indeed, once they pulled into the parking lot, both clutching cups of coffee for dear life, Francis turned and asked him if he was sure that he wanted to go to the rink. 

“Alfred, taking one day off of training-”

“No.”

Francis hesitates, like he wants to tell Alfred to stay in the car, but he waves him on. 

“Go,” he says, and Alfred would be a fool if he couldn’t hear the hurt in his voice. “God knows you’ll go crazy without your ice. Not that I don’t think we’re all a little crazy after the fiasco last night…”

Alfred would have tried to offer some kindness-a compensation, if you would-had he not realised it was useless. Francis had probably spent the rest of the night consoling a distraught and angry Arthur, an endeavour that probably required more alcohol than was healthy for the human body to consume. 

“Stay in the car, Papa. I won’t be mad.”

“ _Non_ , Alfred, you know how much I love to watch your training-”

“Then you’ll watch me at my normal practice. You look half dead.”

And Francis, relieved, leant back into the seat and closed his eyes. 

 

The rink was empty and silent, and Alfred appreciated this greatly. He wasn’t as awake as he would like to be, even with an extra large coffee running through his veins and the cold nipping at his cheeks, but there was something so incredibly liberating about being on the ice again that he pushed it out of his mind and let go into the routine. He was just pulling out of his final spin, skate blade nearly touching his head, when he heard a voice from somewhere behind the bleachers.

“Impressive.”

He prided himself on not falling over or even wobbling, but he did right himself rather more hurriedly than is graceful.

“Who’s there? Dude, the rink is mine, my coaches booked it-”

“The rink is as much mine as it is yours.” 

Alfred’s hands involuntarily balled into fists at the sound of that voice, although it didn’t sound quite right and it made him uneasy. 

“No, it isn’t, because I _fucking booked it._ ”

Ivan emerged from the shadows beneath the bleachers, and he was smirking. He gestured wide, with an open palm. 

“Go ahead,” he said, voice entirely too cheerful at 4:30 something in the morning for it to be genuine. “I’m not stopping you from training, am I?”

“My routine is my business. Get. Out.”

“Make me,” he replied mockingly. 

It is only then that it clicks. “You-that accent-”

“Ah, it seems little Alfred has finally figured it out.”

“Why? What purpose could that possibly-”

“No one wants to be the one who upsets the poor little foreigner, do they? Oh, sure, you might get teased once or twice in school, but no teacher would ever dare to complain about you. That would be _racist,_ and that would mean a black mark on their name forever.”

“You lying little-”

“I am quite sure you do not want to finish that sentence, my darling Alfred.” 

“You were a dancer.” It comes out as a statement, not a question. Ivan’s grin widens; clearly this is what he has been provoking Alfred to say.

“You know who I am now.” 

“What’s it to you? Why do you care that I skate-unless, of course, it’s because you’re jealous that I’m an Olympian and you’re a has-been.”  

“I was a _god_ of ballet in _Russie_ , Alfred. People worshipped the ground that I danced on because of my talent. No one here cares whether you succeed or not.”

“If you were so great, why don’t you just fuck off back to Russia already?”

“Not an option.”

“Then keep your damn fat mouth shut about my skating.”

“Ah, Alfred, always so _violent._ Always so _angry._ ”

“I’m angry because you’re bitching and moaning about things that you couldn’t do even if you tried. There’s no ballet in the Olympics, or did I miss that announcement?”

When Ivan smiled, it showed some of his teeth, like a shark.

“Then prove it to me. Go ahead, show me all the things you can do that I can’t. Show me how great you are.” 

So Alfred _flew._ He hadn’t skated his long routine this well in-he didn’t think he’d ever skated it this well. He even nailed that quad loop that had been giving him such trouble since he’d started the routine. He knew he was overreaching himself (and boy was he going to regret that when it came time for afternoon practice, especially on the amount of sleep he’d gotten) and he didn’t give a damn. The routine ended with one final turn, and yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop either. He kept going, improvising one turn after another, jumping, whirling, gliding. 

It was only after his lungs begun to burn and tighten and his ankles to quake that he pulled himself into a final spin and finally stopped on center ice. For a moment there was only silence, silence and the soft silver whisper of his breath lingering in the air. He turned to Ivan, lingering at the boards.

“Well?” he asked, and started to skate towards the silent figure. His feet were screaming in pain- _too far, too far!_ -and he latched on to the railing for support. 

“You Americans all think overmuch of yourself,” Ivan replied, and Alfred’s mouth dropped open.

“How can you- _were you even fucking watching!?_ ”

“I should never underestimate your ability to condescend my intellect. Yes, I was watching.”

“Oh, and I should never underestimate your ability to be an asshole about everything I do, is that it?”

“What is it that your beloved Founding Fathers used to say?”

“Shut your mouth, you godless commie, don’t you drag the name of my country into this-”

“A country I do not wish to reside in? A country I was brought to forcibly? I see no reason why not.”

“You damn-”

“Alfred, hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s rude to interrupt? No, don’t answer that, apparently your habit of sleeping through class has led the concept of rhetoric to be completely beyond the scope of your mind. As I was saying, I believe the Founding Fathers would have said ‘We are apt to close our eyes to a painful truth,’ yes? _Now_ you may speak.” 

“You don’t get to tell me when I get to speak!”

“No, but the rules of etiquette do. Unless you want to be rude, and we can’t have that, can we?”

Alfred pressed his finger into Ivan’s sternum.

“Fine. Fine. You know what, Braginsky? You want to hear the painful truth that _you’re_ closing _your_ eyes to? Your career is _over_ , and I have my whole life of skating ahead of me. You washed up and burnt out at fourteen. How does that truth feel, then?”

Ivan leaned in closer until their foreheads were pressed against one another, almost nose to nose. 

“I, at least, had a career to speak of in the first place. Yours has not even begun yet,” he whispered.

“I haven’t won four Junior Olympic Gold medals for nothing, you know. They call me the Golden Wonder, probably going to be the youngest men’s figure skating medalist ever.” 

“Pft. A Junior medal means only that you are too weak, too afraid to compete with those who might be-are-better than you. I was dancing with the Bolshoi ballet company from the time that I was nine.” 

“You were a _ballet dancer,_ not an Olympian _._ ”

“At least I was an _artist,_ not some blind puppet following the demands of my parents and my coaches.”

“I am _nobody’s_ puppet!”

“Alfred!” this voice came from the back corner of the rink. Pulling away from Ivan, eyes still sparking, he looked back at the figure lingering by the electric box, the lights over the bleachers and shut-up food stands flickering on. Mattie. Great.

“Al, what the hell are you still doing here? Your ice time ended ten minutes ago! Never mind, Papa and Dad are waiting out in the car, they have your breakfast, you left it on the counter. You have got to start remembering these things, Al...also, Ivan, why the hell are you here? It’s Al’s-you know what, it is too early to deal with this shit. Just go put your pads on.”

Ivan shrugged-he knew better than to piss off his co-captain when there was hockey on the line-and departed for the locker room. Alfred swung one leg and then the other over the boards. When his blades slammed into the rubber padding, his legs buckled and nearly crumpled underneath him.

“Al!” Matthew shouted, and hurried over to where he stood. Looping one arm over his brother’s shoulders, Alfred hobbled over to the bleachers, face flushed fever pink from the pain. When he eased his skates off, Mattie looked like he was about to faint. They’d both had skate blistering before, but never any quite so bloody. His tights were ruined, and his skates would probably reek even worse now. Festering sweat was bad enough on its own, he couldn’t imagine the addition of blood improving it much.

“Oh, Al-” Mattie sighed, and Alfred couldn’t tell if he was more sympathetic or exasperated. Hearing the hockey team approaching from the locker room, he waved his brother away. 

“Go,” he muttered. “You have practice, and I want to get at least two hours of fucking sleep before school. They’re just blisters, Mattie.”

Matthew left without further argument, though his eyes said that there was more to Al’s injury than a pair of blistered feet, and Alfred hobbled barefoot out to the car. He was probably going to catch hypothermia and his toes would turn black and fall off, and then he would never be able to skate ever again. He didn’t care. Right now the snow was fresh and cold and soothing, and he sure as hell was not wearing his boots. When he collapsed into the backseat, both of his fathers looked downright peeved at him. 

“Alfred, you idiot, where have you _been_? Your ice time ended _fifteen_ minutes ago, you’re walking _barefoot_ in the _snow-_ ” Alfred took Arthur’s long, angry breath as an opportunity to point out that he was well aware he had been walking in the snow, he was the one who had been walking in it, after all. 

“Alfred Francis Jones, I have had-”

“Darling, _cher_ , would you let me handle this, please?”

Arthur gave a huff in response, and Francis took this as agreement. Turning around to face his son, he started the conversation anew.

“Alfred Francis Jones, I have had-”

Alfred stuck his feet up on the divider between the two front seats and watched as their faces froze in horror, eyebrows knitted together. Arthur shakily extended a hand to hover about half an inch away from his foot, afraid to touch it and afraid to do nothing in case it hurt his son either way.

“Alfred?”

Alfred turned his head to stare at the frosted windowpane and refused to meet his fathers’ eyes. Arthur opened his mouth and promptly closed it again. Alfred permitted himself a little internal smirk. Nearly fourteen years he’d been trying to get his father to shut up, and apparently all he needed to do was come home from the rink with bleeding feet. He imagined it would have saved a lot of time if he’d discovered this earlier.

“ _Alfréd_ , we are going home. You need some bandages, I need a coffee, and Arthur needs a drink. And we _all_ need to have a discussion.”

“Papa, I know, I know I’m a fucking idiot-”

“Alfred, don’t use-”

“He gets it from you,” Francis muttered in return, which made his husband scowl.

“Dad, Papa, we-”

“Alfred, we aren’t mad at you. We’re just going home to get you what you need and talk for a bit.”

“We’ll wake Leon.”

“Leon is already awake doing God knows what, probably plotting the demise of this entire town via firecracker- _no,_ Alfred. Arthur, why do all of your children have such an _affinité_ for fire and exploding things?”

“I don’t know, why do all of your children enjoy going to ice rinks at all hours of the morning and coming home with injuries?”

Alfred took this moment of distraction as an opportunity to phone Leon and be the sensible adult in the car, despite the fact that there were two legal ones actually present. Leon picked up on the second ring.

“Hello, Bonnefoy-Kirkland residence,” he answered.

“You are concerningly awake for this hour of the morning,” Alfred replied. 

“I have school too, I am sure you are aware.” 

“And if I didn’t have to be at skating practice, I would be asleep.”

“Some people have things to plan.”

“Anyway, I was wondering if you could bring the usual over?”

“Disaster or celebration?”

“Um, first aid?”

“Exactly how many havoc have you two wreaked that something called the ‘disaster kit’ is considered ‘the usual’?”

“Dad, I know you don’t want the answer to that question. Leon, we’re parked outside the rink.”

“ ‘K. I’ll be there in a few.” 

Leon’s definition of a few minutes seemed to significantly differ from that of his parents, given that a what was usually a ten minute drive was shortened to three. He didn’t even quail under the appalled stares of Francis and Arthur, despite the fact that the latter possessed a stare so fearsome even Ludwig had quaked in his boots when he had kept Alfred for training past eleven and Arthur had stormed in and threatened to murder him if he didn’t let Alfred go home _right now._

“What?” he asked with a shrug. “There won’t be any cops out until seven at least.”

“You thought _that_ was our problem!?” spluttered Arthur.

Leon chose not to dignify that with a response and instead turned to Alfred’s feet with an expression that indicated that he would very much like to go and bury his head in the snow. Knowing Alfred wasn’t likely to give him the details with Arthur and Francis still present, he instead set to wrapping his brother’s feet in layers of gauze and Neosporin, Alfred hissing and wincing all the way. After a minute or two, Arthur rummaged around in the glove compartment and surfaced with a lollipop.

“Here,” he muttered, and shoved it into Alfred’s hands. “Maybe that will shut you up, you big baby.”

“M not a baby,” Alfred mumbled around a mouthful of processed sugar, but there was mercifully little sulking in the car after that. One by one they dozed off against the frosted windowpanes, woken only when Matthew came jogging out from the rink and started hammering on the windows.

“Guys! Guys, let me in! Open up, my hair is freezing-oh, hello Leon-took you long enough!”

“Some of us were sleeping,” retorted Alfred in his best Arthur voice with a sly grin.

“Yes, indeed, some of us were indeed enjoying the pleasantry of drifting upon sweet clouds of slumber, wafting by on breezes to the Land of Nod…”

“Indeed, verily, I say! Ergo!” 

“Oh, the lot of you can bugger off,” Arthur replied, and turned to pout at the window. Francis leaned over and caught his jaw with his thumb.

“My darling, long-suffering husband, will you forgive me if I promise to take you to that fancy tea shop you are so fond of after we drop the kids off at school?”

“Maybe.”

“How about if I buy you the Assam _and_ the Silver Needle?”

“Better,” Arthur said with a smile, and leaned in for a kiss. 

“Get a room, you two!” Alfred and Leon shouted in unison, and Matthew pelted them with the little crumbs that were all that remained of his protein bar. Francis pecked his lover lightly on the lips and gave a short breathy laugh.

“What do you say we drop these ingrates off at school and then go for tea?”

“Sounds like a marvelously intelligent idea. If you give it a few years, you may even catch up to me.”

And so with Francis clutching dramatically at his heart, pretending to be offended, and the three kids laughing all the way, they’d set off for the main building. 

Thick socks and plenty of bandaging, however, could only do so much for his feet, as Alfred was quick to discover. Especially when stairs were a factor. He groaned as he and Kiku (the only person Alfred knew outside his family who showed up to school so early) finally finished the flight of stairs to the second floor for literature. 

“Can we take a break?” he asked Kiku, who nodded in response.

“Thanks, man,” Alfred said, and leant back against the wall. He tipped his head back, and let it land against the plaster with a dull thunk. Today was going to be hell on so many levels. Leon had kept kicking him in the car as he moved around, so his sleep situation was hardly improved since practice had ended. He was pretty sure he could feel a fresh wave of blood and blister fluid seeping into his bandages; although not as painful as walking, it certainly wasn’t pleasant. Oh, and Ivan. Couldn’t forget Ivan, whose sole mission in life seemed to be pissing him off. 

This self-pitying reverie was cut off by rapidly approaching footsteps and loud squealing. He blearily opened one eye to see Feliks rapidly approaching, skidding slightly on the tiles as he attempted stopping.

“So, Alfred,-hi Kiku-I heard from Toris, who heard from Eduard, who heard from Raivis, who heard from Ivan that there was like, totally shit going down at the rink today!”

Kiku had to turn his head to the side so Feliks wouldn’t see him laughing.

“Raivis has a big mouth,” Alfred retorted.

“Ooooooh, something _did_ happen!” Feliks squealed. 

 “I mean, not-it wasn’t exactly like that-” he was promptly cut off by the arrival of a very out-of-breath Toris. 

“I have no idea,” he gasped, bent over at the waist, “how in the world you can run that fast when you need to confirm gossip and yet get out of gym class _every damn day._ ”

“I only run when there’s something important to run to!” Feliks replied tartly, folding his arms for emphasis. “And hearing whether or not Alfred and Ivan had another fight is far more important than some sweaty gym teacher blowing a whistle at me.”

“Once you got out of gym class because of _period cramps_!” 

“Toris, to be fair, have you seen how he’s dressed today?” Alfred pointed out, gesturing emphatically at Feliks’s skirt and sweater ensemble. “No offense, Feliks.”

“None taken. Anyway, don’t change the subject, Toris. Or you, Alfred, I want to hear, like, _everything_ about the massive fight you guys had.” To Feliks’s credit, he didn’t look quite so eager for gossip now, eyebrows drawn together in a deep V.

“There was no-” Alfred had to take a deep breath as he took his weight off of the wall to fall into step beside his friends. “There was no fight,” he continued. “I went to the rink for private practice, Ivan was there, we argued, Mattie and the hockey team showed up, I left. That’s it.” 

“Oh, really? Then why are you limping?” 

“Because I have blisters on my feet.”

“And why do you have blisters on your feet, Alfred?” Kiku asked with an expression that was entirely to neutral to be wholly innocent. “And why is there a giant bruise on Ivan Braginsky’s face? And why are so tired that you look like an extra in some vampire chick flick?”

“Guys!” Alfred snapped. “Back off! Just back off, okay!” He really needed to sit down, his feet were screaming in pain. “I don’t want to talk about practice, I don’t want to talk about my family, and I sure as _hell_ don’t want to talk about Ivan!” 

Feliks, always unable to keep his mouth shut when it mattered, answered, “I don’t think we asked about your family.” Words failed Alfred, so he just growled wordlessly at his little gaggle of friends and stormed into the literature classroom alone, very pointedly sitting at a table right in the back, daring anyone to sit with him. His friends were, of course, just moments behind him, which rather ruined the effect of his dramatic entrance. One look at the expression on his face-Arthur had taught him well-and they wisely chose to sit at their usual table instead. Even Chelle, who looked like she was having a crappy day herself given her untied shoelaces and inside-out hoodie, stayed away. 

Mr. Edelstein looked somewhat alarmed at the usually-genial Alfred sitting by himself and scowling like Mr. Karpusi when Mr. Adnan tried to get him to teach something other than the history of Ancient Greece, but didn’t press the issue. Evidently it was more important to start putting the notes for today’s lesson up on the whiteboard.Ivan strolled into class moments before the bell rang, smiling like he’d just been given a free puppy. Alfred wore a decidedly more furious expression as Ivan carefully surveyed the empty seats in the room and decided that the ideal place to sit was at Alfred’s table cluster. Mr. Edelstein looked like perhaps it was time for an intervention. Indeed, if he wanted his classroom and everything in it, including the students, to remain in one piece, it probably was.

“Mr. Braginsky, perhaps it would be better if you were to sit somewhere else?”

“But why are you wanting that of me, Mr. Edelstein?”

“Well, it looks like Alfred is not particularly desirous of your company-or, indeed, anyone’s company-this morning.”

“Surely you are not doing the suggesting that I am not wanted?”

“What? No, Mr. Braginsky, you misunderstand.”

“I am not believing that I am.”

“Mr. Braginsky, I do not appreciate being interrupted, or told what to do.”

“But Mr. Edelstein, I cannot be imagining why Alfred is not wanting my presence. I have done nothing badly to him…”

“Mr. Braginsky, I rather think you are missing the point.”

“The only reason I can be thinking of is that Alfred does not think my English is good enough-that _I_ am not good enough-to sit with.” 

Mr. Edelstein sent a pleading look to Alfred, who grunted and shrugged his shoulders in response. If possible, Ivan’s smile grew wider, and a little bit more evil looking.

“I thought you would be agreeing with me,” he said. Mr. Edelstein gave him a long look, and then turned back to the board to finish his meticulously ordered bullet points. “Yesterday, we talked about themes and motifs in Dorian Grey. Can anyone tell me what you think their character motivations were?”

“Anger,” Alfred blurted before he could even think about what is leaving his mouth. “I think Basil drove Dorian to do what he did out of anger. And Dorian was tired of being treated like he wasn’t good enough.”

“I disagree,” Ivan replied, and there was a collective silence in the room. Feliks’s eyes were as wide as saucers, probably wishing he had his video camera with him, because this promised to be better train-wreck-watching entertainment than anything on Project Runway _or_ a hockey game. “I think Dorian was deserving exactly how he was treated. He acted like child, and when Mr. Basil grew tired of him, he was becoming angry. He had not a right.”

“You think Dorian deserved to be treated like that?” Alfred asked, incredulous. “You think he wanted to be treated like he was this tiny, fragile thing his whole life? It doesn’t matter if it was Basil or the Lord-they still just thought of him as a thing, regardless of what he accomplished.”

“What had Dorian been accomplishing?” Ivan asked in mock confusion. “Perhaps I am making the mistake, but his only accomplishment was the looking pretty.” 

“You think that’s all he wanted to do with his life? Look pretty? Maybe he would have been able to prove he was capable of more if Basil had ever just _opened his eyes and seen it._ ”

“Maybe Basil was doing the thinking that Dorian could be much better, and Dorian never proved himself.”

“Excellent classroom discussion!” Mr. Edelstein cut in, because Ivan and Alfred were already both rising out of their chairs, and the last thing he needed the year before he was going to get tenure was a fistfight in the classroom. “Disagreements over what is written in the text often help to deepen our understanding. How about each of you write me an essay-say, a thousand words-on your point of view about the relationship between Basil and Dorian. Due by Friday.”

“Mr. Edelstein!” Alfred attempted to protest.

“Be careful, Mr. Jones, or I’ll make it due Thursday instead.”

Defeated, Alfred slumped back into his seat. Mr. Edelstein, to his credit, wrote down both ‘anger’ and ‘childish’ on the board before turning back to the still dead-silent classroom. 

“Anyone else?” he asked. Feliks, in a desperate attempt to break the tension, raised his hand. “Yes, Mr.-Mr.-I’m sorry, could you say your name for me _one_ last time?”

Feliks giggled. “It’s not _that_ hard,” he replied. “And I’ve already told you that Feliks is fine.”

Mr. Edelstein sighed. “And I’ve already told you that I think students in this facility deserve more respect than an informal, first-name basis. I don’t like it when my students are infantalised. Either you are mature enough to be held to adult expectations, or you are not. None of this grey area, where I can call you by your first names and you cannot call me by mine, or where you are expected to have an adult’s workload but they are still censoring and banning books from the curriculum because you might think too much, or where some of you are old enough to drive, and smoke, and get shot at, but you cannot drink.” He pinched the bridge of his nose just below where his glasses rested. “Excuse me. That was rather too opinionated for the classroom, and I should not have shared it with you. It was not professional.” 

Feliks, ever the tension breaker, soldiered on. “You like classical music, right, Mr. Edelstein?” The teacher frowned, uncertain where this line of questioning was going. “Why don’t you, like, call me Mr. Chopin? He was Polish.” 

Mr. Edelstein couldn’t resist a shake of his head and a smile. “Alright then. Mr. Chopin, would you please tell us what you think of Dorian’s character? Or his relationship to Basil?”

“I think it had to do with broken trust,” he says simply. “Because it’s, like, very obvious that he and Dorian loved each other. But they couldn’t be with each other, because they totally never talked. And if you never really talk to someone, how can you understand them properly?” 

There was a moment’s pause before Mr. Edelstein went to go write that on the board too. Alfred was certain that they talked about other things during class-after all, the board was full of things that he didn’t write down-but he spent the rest of class turning over Feliks’s words in his mind. When the bell rang, he pretended not to notice Mr. Edelstein trying to catch his eye, and instead hurriedly limped over to his friends, where Feliks was informing Chelle of her poor fashion choices that morning.

“I know, I know,” she grumbled. “I overslept this morning, okay? And it was either dress nicely or eat breakfast.” 

“Um, Chelle? I think Feliks was trying to tell you your sweatshirt’s on inside out and your shoes are untied,” Alfred pointed out. Blushing, she struggled with the bunched sleeves as she tugged it up over her head to put it on the right way. 

“So, does this mean you are going to act like a normal human being for the rest of the day?” Kiku asked with a wry smile. “No more looking like you’re going to murder anybody?”

“Although I still want, like, the whole story,” Feliks interjected. Toris looked like he’d just been mentally run over by a truck. 

“If Alfred doesn’t want to talk about something, he doesn’t have to,” he reassured his friend. “I’m really more interested in how the ‘Dinner Party of Doom’ went-oh, crap.”

“What?”

“Hockey team, incoming at twelve o’clock,” Toris replied. There was a collective groan. It was still far to early in the morning to deal with assholes, especially assholes who permanently smelled of BO and yet still thought themselves attractive. 

“Oh, look, if it isn’t the little fairies,” Jack smirked. 

“I like fairies,” Feliks replied absentmindedly. How in the world such a perceptive person could be quite so airheaded seemed to be beyond Kiku’s logic, given the fact that his eyes had glazed over in panic. If there had been any chance that this hallway gathering was going to end peacefully, there wasn’t now. Not when someone insulted Feliks.

“Oh, you do, do you?” Jack continued? “Do you like hugging them, and kissing them, and sucking them off, you little tranny-” His words were abruptly cut off by a fist to the face, which hit his jaw with a very satisfying smack. All five of them froze and turned to where Matthew was standing, lightly massaging his knuckles. 

“You’re benched for the next three games,” he said, his voice about as warm as liquid nitrogen. “Get out.” Jack didn’t even hesitate before taking off. “You good?” Matthew asked, but his voice was interrupted by the sleepy-sounding voice of the intercom.

“Alfred F. Jones, could you come to the dean’s office please? Mr. Jones, would you come to the dean’s office please?”

“Oh, fuck me running,” Alfred muttered, and turned to head back down the stairs. When he burst into Mr. Adnan’s office, he was already talking. “Listen, I don’t know how that little snitch got here so quickly, but I didn’t do-” ...and promptly shut up when he saw that both of his parents were sitting across from Mr. Adnan’s desk, and Mr. Wang was leaning against the wall with a lazy, triumphant smile. Francis looked very pale, as though he were about to vomit at any second, and Arthur seemed to not have quite decided whether to punch Mr. Wang in the face or break down crying.

“Ah, Mr. Jones,” Mr. Adnan said, hoping that none of those things were going to happen and that this meeting was going to be as peaceful as meetings with Alfred’s parents ever were. “Would you please take a seat?” Alfred, afraid of moving too suddenly, went to delicately perch on the chair Mr. Adnan had gestured to. The movement resembled a woman from the nineteenth century attempting not to ruin her skirts as she sat down; the effect would have almost been comical had the atmosphere not already been so tense. 

“Alfred,” Francis began, “the school is rather concerned about how your skating is affecting your schoolwork.”

“Bullshit,” Arthur muttered. 

“Arthur,” Francis ground out through his teeth, “I thought we agreed that we wouldn’t do this until everyone had said what they needed to say.”

“Oh, I suppose you think I’m just going to sit here and let my son be insulted, is that it?” 

“If we could perhaps return to the topic at hand?” Mr. Adnan interrupted. “Mr. Jones, the reason you’ve been called in is because one of your teachers has reason to believe your athletic commitment is negatively impacting your academic performance.”

“What? No! I have good grades!” Alfred insisted. 

Mr. Adnan cleared his throat. “Actually, Mr. Jones, Mr. Wang has just informed me that you are dangerously close to flunking your math course this year. We are, of course, happy to offer-” the rest of Mr. Adnan’s sentence passed through one ear and out the other. Flunking math. Flunking. Math. Oh, this was not good, not good at all-

“Excuse me,” Arthur interrupted, and Alfred felt a small portion of his stomach return to where it should be. “Could you perhaps provide some evidence for this claim? Because the last test Alfred showed me was a long way from failing. Not an A, perhaps, but definitely not failing.”

“Well, you see,” Mr. Wang replied, every word dripping with poisonous treacle, “test scores are not the only thing that affect grades in my class. I also grade class participation and homework assignments. And I’m afraid that with the way Alfred has been sleeping through class lately, and the way he’s been performing on homework assignments, I just cannot rightfully give him a participation grade. In fact, with the score discrepancy, I have reason to believe he may even be cheating.”

“That’s completely unfair!” Alfred cut in. “You said homework was graded on completion, not whether or not it’s right. And I do better on the tests because to help me study, Kiku and Toris explain everything that _you_ don’t teach to me!”

Continuing as though Alfred had never spoken, Mr. Adnan began explaining what the school called ‘their options.’ “Now, Alfred, there are a couple different ways we could handle this. If your math grade showed significant improvement before the midterm exams, then we could allow the school year to continue as normal. But Mr. Wang thinks the only way you would have the time for that is through tutoring after school most days a week and if you gave up your skating to have more time to focus on your academics. Now, you could also withdraw for the year so you would have more time to train, but you’d have to repeat the whole year.”

“What about homeschooling? Lots of kids involved in sports do homeschooling!”

“Alfred, I’m sorry, but with the amount we spend on your training, we just can’t afford tutors for homeschooling right now. Arthur and I offered to teach you ourselves, using one of the online curricula, but the county has laws about qualifications and all kinds of sh-um, shale, like that.” Clearly, Francis hoped that diplomacy would succeed where fighting had not. Judging by Arthur’s snort, he disagreed. 

“You can of course have some time to talk things over with your family in private,” Mr. Adnan reassured him. “But we need to know sooner rather than later.” 

“No,” Alfred replied.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean by-”

“I mean no, that there’s another option. I can have a hearing. I can have my situation evaluated by the school, andget representation by one of my teachers.”

“Mr. Jones, are you quite certain about this? Whatever the panel decides, that decision holds. There’s no going back on your decision.”

“I’m sure,” Alfred replied, meeting the dean’s gaze evenly. To his surprise, the man smiled. _He wanted me to make that decision all along,_ he realised. 

“Do you have someone in mind to represent you?” Mr. Adnan continued, clearly satisfied with Alfred’s answer. Alfred nodded. “Why don’t you go get them while your parents and I talk over the procedure?” 

Alfred hobbled out of the room as fast as his feet would carry him. Down one flight, then two flights of stairs to the department offices. He started hammering on the door, and without giving anyone a chance to answer, yanked open the door to the English office. 

“Mr. Edelstein?” he asked, somewhat out of breath and still grimacing (he had _got_ to stop rising to Ivan’s bait if this was how it left him). “I need your help.” 

 


	6. Eyes Like Frozen Heather

“Mr. Jones, what a pleasant surprise. I take from your expression that you are not, in fact, simply looking for some assistance in your Dorian essay?”

“What?” Alfred asked, corner of his mouth turning down. “Oh, that. No. No, I need you to come with me to Mr. Adnan’s office, like, right now. Jeez, why are all you Germans so anal about work?” 

“Number one, I am Austrian, not German. Number two, watch your language, Mr. Jones. Number three, who are “all you Germans” exactly? And number four, where are we going and why are we going there?” 

Alfred grabbed a hold of his teacher’s arm and started dragging him towards the door. “Fine, fine, Austrian. Didn’t you say you were a cousin of Ludwig’s? Or something?”

Roderich’s eyes flicked to Alfred’s in momentary confusion, then down towards his hands. “I had forgotten I mentioned that to you,” he mumbled. “That still doesn’t explain why I am being unceremoniously dragged from my office, does it?” 

“It’s an emergency!”

“What sort of emergency?” Mr. Edelstein managed to gasp out in between huffs and puffs. Alfred tried to be helpful, he really did, but currently he was failing, and rather miserably too. 

“Oh, I don’t know. The sort of emergency that might result in getting expelled.”

Mr. Edelstein’s jaw went slack, and he would have stopped short in his tracks had Alfred not been dragging him forward. 

“There’s no time for dawdling!” his young charge shouted, and Mr. Edelstein had to suppress a grin at how much Alfred sounded like him. He did not have to try for very long, however, as Alfred had decided that Roderich was simply not moving fast enough for his tastes. And that was how he found himself being carried piggyback by one of his students, through the school, at a speed that might only be outstripped by Ludwig, or Vash when offered the opportunity to save money. Maybe Feliciano if there was something-or someone-to run away from.

 

Lili Zwingli was very excited about starting highschool. Going to highschool meant that she’d be with her big brother all day (even if people usually mistook her for a teacher.) Going to highschool meant making new friends (she’d made friends with a really nice guy named Eirik, who knew absolutely everything about puffins.) But most of all, highschool meant not being bored anymore. She loved her big brother, of course, and was glad that they lived in a neighbourhood with such a low crime rate, but nothing ever happened. Highschool promised otherwise. However, one thing she had not braced herself for was seeing one of the older students come tearing down the hall at top speed, carrying that cravat-wearing English teacher her brother hated so much on his back. Goodness, she hadn’t expected it to be quite so exciting!

 

Alfred had a vague recollection of blowing past a small blonde kid in the hallway, but didn’t really remember much of their run back to Mr. Adnan’s office. He also wasn’t sure exactly how Mr. Edelstein was still out of breath, regardless of the fact that he had been dragged or carried most of the way there. Pushing that thought out of his mind, he wrenched the door open and announced to the gathered crowd,

“My representation, Mr. Edelstein.” 

Mr. Adnan looked somewhat pleased, Arthur more than a little relieved. Mr. Wang’s face was far too blank for it to mean anything other than rage. Francis, upon seeing Roderich, had gone very white indeed. Mr. Edelstein simply blinked several times, as if trying to clear sand from his eyes.

“Francis?” he asked. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

“Roderich. A delight, as always.” 

“You two know each other?” Alfred asked, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “Small world after all!” he continued with a wide grin. 

Francis still looked rather grey, and Roderich lifted his eyebrows. Francis gave his head a single shake, and Roderich seemed to understand. There was a question still there, in his eyes, but whether or not Francis got his answer Alfred did not learn, as his attention had instead been drawn to Mr. Adnan. 

“If we may begin?” the dean asked, to murmurs of consent all around from the gathered adults. “Alfred has chosen to have the school hold a hearing on the matter of his repeating a year, yes?” 

Mumbles and nods sweeping the room once more.

“Alfred has procured his faculty representative-Roderich, I take it that you accept?” 

“I was honoured to be chosen.”

“There is also the matter of getting another student to vouch for Mr. Jones at the hearing. Although certainly not necessary, it does make a favourable impression on the Board to have a student willing to represent you.”

“Bollocks,” Arthur muttered, although it came out sounding a lot like “bowling” due to the fact that Francis had timed the placement of his elbow into Arthur’s ribs with medical precision. Alfred was willing to bet money that he only needed a student rep because the school liked to give the Board the impression that students were involved in the administrative process-students who, more likely than not, were the sons and daughters of the Board members. He definitely agreed with his father: bollocks.

“How about Mathieu?” Francis suggested. “He’s Alfred’s brother, I’m sure he would be happy to help. And his math grade is fine, although I would like to point out that Alfred is actually doing better in chemistry than his brother, so I fail to see why all of this is necessary.” 

“I’m afraid that as Mr. Jones’s brother, that makes him ineligible.” 

Alfred’s blood froze in his veins. Shit. Shit shit shit shit fucking shit, he’d been counting on Mattie. Kiku couldn’t testify for him, his father wouldn’t allow it. Conflict of interest, or whatever. (Alfred’s inner movie critic took this opportunity to point out that this was just a school hearing, not, in fact, an episode of Law and Order: SVU, and that real courts didn’t look like that in any case.) Alfred ignored the little inner critic. 

Instead, he ran through the list of candidates over and over in his mind. Feliks. Toris. Chelle. Feliks. Toris. Chelle. Feliks hated public speaking, too many strangers-especially too many adults-in a room made him nervous. Put Feliks on the stand and he was more likely to get a defense made up of criticising the Board’s fashion choices, if he could get anything at all. Toris would just stand there shaking like the skeleton branches on winter trees when the wind blew through them. And Chelle was likely to start shouting, or arguing-he commended her for not censoring her thoughts, but she was never the right choice for a sensitive matter. He also really wanted to punch himself in the face. His friends were in class, probably worried sick about him, and all he could do to repay their kindnesses was to sit around critiquing them. 

“I need some air,” he gasped, and stormed out into the hallway. He did not get very far, just enough to be out of the sight of the office. Pressing his back flat against the cool metal of the lockers, he let himself slide down to the floor and just sat. Maybe sitting would be enough for now. He was roused from his frustrated trance, however, by the sound of unanticipated footsteps. The heavy, slow steps could only have belonged to-and indeed did belong to-Ivan Braginsky. Had he encountered him an hour earlier, perhaps even a half hour earlier, Alfred probably would have strangled the Russian boy with his own scarf. Instead, he just sat there, eyes like steel, and stared him down. 

Ivan, on the other hand, was seemingly delighted to happen upon Alfred. “Should you not be in class, comrade?” he asked.

“No, I should actually be in Mr. Adnan’s office, asking him if he would have to expel me if I punched Mr. Wang in the face.”

“It is your own fault for sleeping in class.”

“Fuck off, Ivan.”

“You are not yourself today, Alfred. Are you all worn out? I’m sure someone here is very glad not to have to listen to you never close your mouth.”

“Does the sentence ‘fuck off’ mean something else in your country?”

“This is not like you.”

Alfred, gripping the metal of the lockers, pushed himself slowly into a standing position. “Ivan, say whatever you’ve come to say and-” here he gasped as he made it to his feet and swayed unsteadily-"leave.” 

“Here,” was all Ivan replied, and handed Alfred a small package. He hadn’t been able to read the nonsense letters scrawled over the box, but the illustration of a lithe ballerina spreading ointment over her foot gave him a good indicator of what was inside. 

Alfred pushed it back into Ivan’s hands. “Listen, dude, I’ve seen what you hockey guys get up to with the freshmen in your spare time. The whole “cayenne-pepper-Icy Hot” trick won’t work on me. But nice try. Real clever.” He began to limp away with whatever dignity he thought that he could preserve, and his feet gave out from underneath him. He almost felt proud of them, proud that they’d hung on this long. He braced himself for the impact of his knees with the floor; a bracing that was totally unnecessary. Ivan lunged forward and seized his arm at the elbow. The pain of the vice on his joint was almost enough to make him consider not thanking Ivan for not allowing him to fall on his face. Almost.

The suspension wasn’t exactly comfortable, but the position did give him an unusually good look at his classmate’s face. Plus, it prevented him from breaking his nose and having to get one of those really stupid face splints. He wasn’t certain if Ivan looked more or less intimidating up close. Not that he would ever admit to finding anyone frightening. (Except maybe Papa with a hangover. An intoxicated Arthur was one thing, but even he was scared when Francis got drunk.)

“What colour would you call your eyes, anyway?” Alfred blurted out as he straightened from his precarious position. Ivan blinked, as though uncertain where such a question had come from. 

“Violet,” he replied. “Like-who is that American movie star?”

“I don’t know if you’ve realised this,” Alfred said, slowly, “but we Americans have a lot of movie stars. A lot.” 

“You do not need to tell me that multiple times.”

“So, dude, I’m going to need a bit more to go on here than ‘American movie star’. And it’s tell me twice, not tell me multiple times. Honestly, don’t you guys have idioms in Russia?”

“We do. A particular favourite of mine is ‘If you do not close your mouth, a bird will fly in, shit in it, and suffocate you.’ Which is exactly what will be happening to you in a minute if you do not let me think.”

Empty threat or no, Alfred shut his mouth and let Ivan think.

“Why are you out here, little comrade? Have you upgraded from sleeping through class to skipping?”

“I’m not-” Alfred’s head was screaming It’s none of your business, get out!-but his heart had other ideas. Instead, he punched the locker behind him with enough force to leave a sizeable dent. Even Ivan’s eyes widened in alarm at that expression of his anger. Alfred decided that now was the time for the dignified exit that Ivan had stolen from him and stalked off. Ivan, ignoring Alfred’s drama queen antics, followed.

“Where are you going, Alfred?”

Alfred tried to ignore him.

“Alfred, where are you going?”

Alfred continued to try to ignore him.

“Alfred? Allllllfred?”

Alfred’s fist was dangerously close to connecting with Ivan’s face.

“Alfred? Why are you wanting to punch Mr. Wang in the face?”

Alfred considered correcting Ivan’s presumption that it was Mr. Wang that he wanted to punch in the face (he had got to stop voicing his thoughts), but decided that it was probably better for everyone’s health if he let the other boy go on thinking that. Besides, it wasn’t like it was untrue.

“Because he’s an asshole. Do I need much more of a reason?”

“No, I agree. He is never doing things the way I tell him to, even if my way is better.”

“At least we’ve found something to agree on. It’s a Christmas miracle,” he muttered, complete with borderline aggressive jazz hands. 

“You still have not told me why you want to punch him in the face today in particular.”

“Because I don’t like it when people try and take things-take things away from me.”

“You are a spoilt child.”

“Really? ‘Cause I could say the same about you.”

“I was uprooted from my home country and taken here forcibly. I gave up a promising career, my language, and my home. I wouldn’t talk about having things taken away from you, little comrade.”

“No, you’re the poster boy for well-adjusted. Walking around with a metal pipe terrorising students weaker than you, picking fights with me at the skating rinks, and holding grudges against anyone who has an interest in anything remotely artistic. Perfectly normal.” 

“I see. He’s taking your skating from you, isn’t he?”

“What? No! Who are we talking about?”

“Mr. Wang, and yes, he is. Your blush gives you away, Alfred.”

For not the first time in his life, Alfred spewed internal curses at his birth parents for giving him a complexion that broadcasted his emotions to the world. 

“So what?”

“I shouldn’t care, should I?”

Alfred shrugged, turning to continue back down to the office. The Board probably wouldn’t agree to a hearing without student representation. It was time to start making decisions.

“But I do, little comrade.”

Alfred refused to turn. He refused to give in to temptation. But the statement did succeed in making him stop in his tracks.

“I should be happy, shouldn’t I? That you will lose your skating the way I lost my dancing? I am not.”

“Are the riddles really necessary? God, you’re just like stupid Dorian, dancing around whatever you’re saying.”

“I’m going to represent you at your hearing.”

“What is it with the pranks today, Braginsky? I’m not biting.”

“It is not a joke.”

“You’d set me up.”

“If I wanted to watch you fail, would I offer at all?”

Psycho had a point. Huh. Score one for the Russian.

“Fine. What’s in it for you?”

“Well, usually I would settle for acknowledgment of my superiority. But you seem unusually stubborn, Alfred. So I will settle for something that proves that I am better than you are.”

“Uh-huh. Keep dreaming, asshat.”

“Ballet lessons.” 

“What about them? Aside from the fact that you don’t take them anymore.” Alfred just couldn’t resist getting in a little jibe at Ivan’s expense. Ivan’s eyes flashed in warning and Alfred ducked his head. Now would not be a good time to lose what little support he had.

“You will be taking them. With me. I want to see you on your knees, begging me to stop, to let you stop, begging me to end the ache in your muscles, and when that day happens I will laugh.”

“You wish. I’m never going to beg you for anything.”

“Does that mean we have a deal?”

“Done.”

Alfred spat on his palm and offered his hand out to the larger boy. Ivan stared at it, utterly repulsed.

“I think I will trust your word above your saliva. I do not think you could pay me enough to touch you.”

Alfred stuck his hands back in the pockets of his jeans. Ivan started walking back towards the staircase, and Alfred matched his stride. As insane as this idea was, it might...it might actually work, he considered to himself. Ivan could be-and often was-downright terrifying. Terrifying enough to persuade even teachers. Maybe if he could get them to look past Mr. Wang’s argument, and Mr. Wang’s money; maybe if he could get them to look at his skating and his chemistry grades instead-maybe he could win them over. Ivan was trying to say something to him, but it went in one ear and out the other. He did not respond to Ivan’s questions. He did not offer thoughts of his own. He did not even notice when Ivan opened the office door so forcefully it nearly came off of its hinges. 

“Alfred, this is your student representation?”

That voice shook him out of his reverie, because that voice did not have a Russian accent, and that voice was asking a genuine question, and that voice was in response to the room-wide, open mouthed stares. 

“Um, yes?”

“Alfred, are you really sure this is a good idea?” Arthur and Francis looked as though they were on the edge of hyperventilation. The only plus side to this situation was that Mr. Wang looked as scared as they did. That drove Alfred to stick with his decision more than anything else. 

“Ivan Braginsky will be representing me at my academic disciplinary hearing.” 

“Looks like everything is in order,” Mr. Adnan cut in. “The school just needs a few signatures for the paperwork-Yao, you’ve already signed this, but Mr. Bonnefoy-Kirkland and Mr. Kirkland-Bonnefoy, if you could sign here and here-Alfred, put your signature there, excellent; Roderich and Ivan, if you could?” And with a final flourish of his own pen, the report was filed. As the ink dried, Alfred looked at Ivan’s name signed next to his own and wondered if he’d just signed away his career or won a war. 

Mr. Adnan was waving everybody except for his parents out of the room, and Ivan had already disappeared back to whatever circle of hell he’d come from, so Alfred left alone. 

“I’m going to kill myself,” he muttered as he headed in the direction of-was it lunch? Was the cafeteria even open? He was going there anyway, he needed food. Shifting the bulk of his backpack’s weight to his left shoulder, he tried to recall the rest of his schedule. 

“Mr. Jones.”

“No, better yet, Mr. Wang’s going to kill himself,” he continued. “God knows he-”

“Mr. Jones.” There was something a little cold about the English teacher’s posture, but Alfred ignored it. Mr. Edelstein was probably tired of putting up with all of Mr. Wang’s crap, too. 

“Oh. Hi, Mr. Edelstein. Sorry about the shit show in there.”

“I wonder if I will ever be able to teach you not to use such plebeian language.”

“Dad hasn’t succeeded yet, so my bet is on ‘no’.” 

“Do you have a moment to spare? I’d like to see you in my office.”

Internally, Alfred was crying. Today was corn dog day at lunch, and he could really have used some deep fried comfort. But it probably wasn’t a good idea to piss off the person who was practically acting as your lawyer, so he agreed to go back down to the office. 

Mr. Edelstein unlocked one of the drawers in his filing cabinet and started rifling through it as soon as they arrived at his desk. Alfred took this as a prime opportunity to do a little snooping. Granted, he could do very little snooping, given that Mr. Edelstein was right there, but in all of the spy movies people’s desks were super important! It was critical not to miss anything! 

This was not hard to do, since there was very little on Mr. Edelstein’s desk to miss. There was a pretty glass paperweight, shaped to look as though there were pretty tropical fish swimming through it. A manila folder lying open, filled with half graded papers. A sheet of music, scribbled on in narrow script. And a framed photo of Mr. Edelstein, standing with a woman in a green dress and an albino man. The albino man had his arm around Mr. Edelstein, and was laughing uproariously at some joke Alfred could not hear. Both his teacher and the albino had their hands resting on the shoulders of a young child with equally pale hair. 

“Oh, you like my family portrait?” 

“Is that-”

“My son? Yes. Raphael. And that’s Elizaveta, and Gilbert. Actually, I called you down here because of him-here.” Mr. Edelstein placed a small stack of leather-bound books in his hands. Alfred nearly staggered under the weight. “They’re his old journals. He was a skater, you know, just like you.”

“Um, thanks. Are you sure he’s okay with you, uh, letting me read his diaries?”

“Journals, not diaries,” he retorted with the tired precision of someone who has made a correction one too many times. “And he’s fine with it. Trust me, these aren’t even all of them. Just the ones from his skating years.”

“Why exactly am I getting these again? No offence, but a guy who journals this much is probably a little, um, neurotic.”

Roderich shrugged. “Just a hunch that they’d help. Take them or leave them, it’s up to you.” He turned to his desk and started flipping through the half-graded papers, and Alfred crept out of the office, no longer welcome, and headed in the direction of the cafeteria for the final time that day. Every forty-five seconds or so he paused for a brief rest, not only because his feet hurt and his books were heavy, but also because he was half anticipating yet another interruption. Mercifully, there wasn’t one, and he was permitted to collapse onto one of the slightly greasy bench and table sets with a plate piled high with corn dogs. Ludwig would kill him for eating that poorly on a training day, but right now processed meats in the present took priority over destroyed eardrums in the future. 

Pushing unpleasant thoughts out of his mind, he turned his attention to the first few pages of the book Mr. Edelstein had given him. There was definitely something weird about being given people’s personal items as a gift, but his spy senses were itching. He wasted no time in starting to rifle through for information.

The journal did, at first, make him question what sort of writing implement this ‘Gilbert’ was fond of using. A fire poker, or perhaps a large and cumbersome spear dipped in ink were the current favourite candidates. Still, after each sentence was deciphered, it did provide him with a surprising amount of entertainment. He hoped Ludwig would bring his brother around to practice someday, he sounded like a remarkably enjoyable person. For example, his entry about the general state of the holidays: 

If the Salvation Army man outside the grocery store rings his bell one more time while I am desperately driving around in circles trying to find a parking space, I’m going to shove one of the plastic antlers from the reindeer display up his ass. 

Sometimes his musings were nothing more than what seemed to be whatever thought was running through his head at any given time. He talked about wanting to take up the electric guitar, about the weather, about anyone who wasn’t as awesome as he was (which was pretty much everyone. God, the guy had an ego). But most of all, he talked about skating, and somehow Alfred was growing to like and respect him for that. He’d been a pair skater, and his partner was someone named Elizaveta-was that the girl in Mr. Edelstein’s photograph? He’d thought that was Mr. Edelstein’s wife, given that his teacher had called the kid with the weird braids his son, but to each their own*. 

Dear Journal (no, it’s not a diary, Elizaveta you can shove it),

Today’s practice was a disaster in every sense of the word. Somehow I’d gotten it into my head that attempting the quad lutz in competition was a good idea. Not just the quad lutz-dinner. Be back.

(Gilbert, did you learn nothing from Plushenko?) 

Eliza, STAY OUT! 

Anyway, not just the quad lutz, but I’m going to do a quad and then Elizaveta’s going to do a triple lutz beside me. How in the name of God we’re going to pull this off I have no idea. Furthermore, my manager hired a new costume designer who doesn’t seem to understand the concept of ‘less is more.’ I have no idea how many rhinestones are on my costume, but if there are enough to cause chafing, then there are too many.

Alfred agreed. 

I should have just asked Francis to take care of it, but he’s off gallivanting again, God knows where, probably with the new boy toy of his, the English one. Heard some fantastic stories of what they got up to last weekend-

Alfred snapped the book shut with record-setting speed. One thing he was definitely not interested in was reading about his parents’ pre-marriage sex life. He skipped the next five pages and skimmed the one after that before deeming it safe, then read onwards. 

There was some kid in the stands at our practice today, friend of Elizaveta’s. First of all, he was wearing a cravat. Who the hell wears a cravat? Secondly, he just sat there with his legs folded and his lips all pursed like he’d just swallowed a gooseberry. Wonder what crawled up his ass and died.

Alfred tried-and failed-to muffle several giggles. Mr. Edelstein did look a little bit like that during class whenever someone said something particularly stupid. He looked even more like that during the staff meetings he was forced to attend. 

I have no idea where Elizaveta even finds these friends. Also, he speaks German all wrong. Apparently he’s Austrian, which explains most of these complaints. Probably angry from all of the three dollars he had to spend today to take the T. He does have really nice eyes, though. Really, really nice. They look kind of what I think heather would look like if it froze over. 

Alfred very quietly put the book down and let it close with a thump. Someone else had eyes like winter flowers. Someone with whom he’d had far, far too many close encounters this week. Ivan had those eyes.

Exactly what was Mr. Edelstein trying to tell him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Google "suum cuique."


	7. Studio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who is keeping up with this story! (especially because everyone who puts up with my weird update schedule!) Thank you to my followers, to my favouriters, to my reviewers. Thank you to everyone who has supported this endeavor, and a special thank you to my beta Espresso_Yourself. To everyone who is kind enough to leave a review, I am extra grateful, because your thoughts and opinions mean a lot to me. Don't hesitate to share what you want to see more of, especially the elements of RusAme that you love/wish you saw more often/have never seen before. Anything goes-if I can't work it in here for plot reasons (for example, if you have a kink for FrUk + RusAme, or USSR/America, or something else that would just be impossible in this story because of the determined character relationships), just send me a PM and I'll see if I can make it happen in a one shot!

 

His fourth corndog was interrupted by the arrival of Kiku at his table.

“Hey,” he grunted at his friend around a mouthful of food. “S’up?”

“You do know it’s repulsive when you do that, don’t you?”

“You sound like my dad.”

“Speaking of your father, I saw him in the hallway on my way here. Is something wrong?”

“Depends on how you define ‘wrong,’ doesn’t it?” 

“Alfred.”

“I mean, things could be a hell of a lot worse. I could, I dunno-”

“Alfred.”

“They’re kicking me out of school.”

His usually stoic friend’s face darkened, and Kiku was already rising from his seat before Alfred could even finish his thought.

“Sit down, nothing’s certain yet.” 

“Alfred, who is trying to expel you?”

“It’s, um, kind of your dad.”

“My father?”

Alfred snorted. “Yeah. Do you know another giant douchebag around here who has it in for me?”

“Alfred, you are my friend, but I would ask you not to disrespect my family.”

“Listen, I know your dad’s got some kind of weird issue with Leon-”

“Don’t speak of things you know nothing about.”

“Dude, I-”

“ _Don’t speak of things you know nothing about._ ”

“Kiku?”

“Goodbye, Alfred.” He stalked out on his heel, and Alfred felt a little bit like faceplanting into the remainder of his lunch. He was, in fact, in the process of doing so when someone standing behind him caught his shoulder.

“Hey, Al. Rough day?”

“You haven’t seen the half of it,” he groaned. “And you don’t look so hot yourself. Why did you come to school half dressed?”

Michelle blushed. “Oh. That. My mom burned breakfast this morning, and so we had to wait for the firetrucks to show up and everything. I was standing on the lawn in my pyjamas, I was so embarrassed!”

“Huh. But your mom cooks such good food.”

“Guess she was distracted this morning,” she shrugged. “Anyway, so why did Kiku just leave looking like he was going to cut your head off at any second?”

“Pissed at Mr. Wang.”

She blinked. “Well, that’s nothing new.” 

“Yeah, but he got super angry ‘cause I said his dad is only threatening to expel me-”

“You’re getting _expelled_?” 

“-because he has some weird issue with Leon.”

“Alfred, sweetheart, I love you. But you’re an idiot.”

Alfred threw his hands up in the air. “What did I do?” 

“Why’d you drag Leon into your fight?”

“Cause that’s why his dad has such a problem with me!”

“It’d probably help if you weren’t constantly giving him smartass replies in class.”

“Dad says that leaving that relationship was the best thing that ever happened to him.”

The corner of her mouth twisted up, neither confirming nor denying what was said. “Maybe it was. ‘S not my story to tell. All I know is that Mr. Wang feels like he lost his son that day, and that maybe you should listen to people other than Arthur once in a while.” 

“What the hell? Chelle, you’re not making any sense.”

“Maybe-maybe Arthur’s story isn’t the only one worth hearing. All I’m saying.”

“I’ve gotta go,” Alfred mumbled, and he gathered up his books and heading to his next class. Even that luxury was interrupted by a familiar buzzing in his pocket. Cursing and swearing, he dug around until he pulled out the object in question.

  1. **_236-0004: Hello Alfred._**



**_Alfred: the hell is this_ **

  1. **_236-0004: It is Ivan, of course._**



**_Alfred: god, what do u want_ **

**_Ivan: Lots of things. I’ll settle for you at our first lesson tomorrow._ **

**_Ivan: Alfred?_ **

**_Ivan: Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten._ **

**_Alfred: no fucktard_ **

**_Alfred: some of us need time 2 type_ **

**_Ivan: Some of us are slow, evidently._ **

**_Alfred: Ivan shut up_ **

**_Ivan: ^J^_ **

**_Alfred: ?_ **

**_Ivan: Is me, da? Watching you._ **

**_Alfred: k, ur weird_ **

**_Ivan: ^J^_ **

**_Alfred: gt 2 the pt_ **

**_Ivan: …?_ **

**_Alfred: Get. To. The. Point. Who’s stupid now?_ **

**_Ivan: Still you. Tomorrow, studio, 3 AM._ **

**_Alfred: fuck u. ballet 2mrw, gotcha. anything else?_ **

**_Ivan: ^J^_ **

**_Alfred: GO AWAY_ **

 

He thumbed out of his messages and into the contacts list, then pressed the dial button. He listened once, twice for the ring. On the third, the line clicked to life. 

“Alfred? Are you okay? We were just about to leave. I hate talking while I’m driving, so make it quick.”

“Dad?” Alfred’s voice actually cracked on the question and he mentally kicked himself. “Can I come home?”

“Oh, Alfred,” his father sighed. “I don’t know. It seems like the school is already angry enough with you.” Muffled static came through the other end of the line, and then Arthur returned. “Alfred? I’m going to put you on to Francis, alright? The car won’t start, and I definitely don’t trust _him_ under the hood.” 

“K. Bye, dad.”

“Allo?”

“Papa? Can I come home early?”

“Ah...Arthur, watch the cables!...I have no idea why he thinks he’s better with cars than I am, he burns down the kitchen three nights a week…”

“Papa. Focus.”

“Of course I have no problem with you coming home early. What does your father think about it, though?”

Alfred shrugged before remembering that Francis couldn’t see him. “Dunno. He just said something about the school, then passed me over to you.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t give two shits about your school right now, so why don’t you meet us down here in the parking lot?”

“Be there in ten.” 

“ _Je t’aime, Alfréd_.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too.” Francis hung up the phone. “Sop,” Alfred muttered, but he grinned. He didn’t feel like grinning when he finally reached the car, though. He was exhausted and in pain and felt, ashamed as he was to admit it, more than a little ready to cry. When he had successfully navigated his way across the frost covered asphalt, he found Arthur swearing rather loudly at the car engine, face smudged with soot and more than a little engine oil.

“Oh, fuck me…” a spurt of black liquid splashed onto his sweater. “This thing has so much oil in it, at this point I’m waiting for the U.S. Army to show up and fix it. Francis, try the fucking ignition again!” he shouted as he slammed the hood shut. Francis turned the key once, twice, and by some miracle on the third try the car sputtered life. “Thank bloody fuck,” Arthur groaned. “Into the car.” 

Alfred started crawling into the backseat, and started when he saw that Arthur was following him. Upon seeing the look that his son was giving him, Arthur shot him a rather grumpy glare. “You think I’m going to leave my son alone after all the shit he’s been through today? I’ll call Ludwig later. Training is cancelled.” 

Alfred might have had the will to protest had he not been suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to cry. 

“Shh, it’s alright,” Arthur muttered, and he brought Alfred in to lean on his shoulder. “We can forget all about this tomorrow morning.” 

As Alfred drifted off and Francis began to drive towards their house, Arthur stared at the passing scenery. One thing was certain, Yao Wang would rue the day he ever crossed his son’s path. Even if it meant a replay of that night, even if it meant his destroyed reputation, even-even if he lost Leon. He would defend Alfred until the very end. 

 

Alfred was lucid that night. His drifting was always interrupted by a the presence of various sounds: several doors opening and shutting, the slam of a window shutter, a strain of music. Every time he closed his eyes he kept waiting for the devil to appear behind them, and yet he never did. Only a glistening, barren wasteland and a young man walking through the drifts of snow ahead of him. The figure was blurred by the rapid snowflakes, and even as Alfred screamed for him to come back, he just kept walking into the storm until he disappeared completely. 

He woke with the feeling of slowly being strangled to death. This was largely because during the course of the night, he had managed to become completely ensnared in his blankets. Maybe that was why Mattie usually hated sharing a bed with him. He glanced at the clock-2:13. Probably time to start getting ready, if he was meeting Ivan at the studio. As if on cue, his phone buzzed.

**_Commie Bastard: Are you awake?_ **

**_Commie Bastard: Alfred?_ **

**_Alfred: awake pls leave_ **

**_Commie Bastard: See you soon!_ **

**_Alfred: yea yea wutevs_ **

He grabbed his skating bag and a protein bar off of the kitchen floor. He’d put his shoes on the wrong feet twice before he managed to get them the right way round-not a great start to the morning. Scribbling a note to his parents- _left for skating early-_ on the kitchen table, he bolted out the door and promptly headed back inside for a jacket, cursing under his breath at the New England autumn temperatures. More properly attired for his adventures, he set off at a brisk jog for the studio in the town centre. 

When the elevator doors dinged open on the third floor, Alfred actually blinked in surprise. He didn’t think anyone would be up at this hour of the morning except for himself and Ivan, and yet the studio was already moderately crowded. He peered into one of the doors and caught sight of several lines of girls in pink tights and black shirts standing around the edges of the room, practicing holding their arms and legs this way or that way. Didn’t look too hard.

His musings were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. 

“Alfred, right? Williams-Jones?” The voice belonged to a young woman with an accent similar to Ivan’s, and the same very short, silvery blonde hair, and _holy smokes did she have huge boobs._ Seriously, Al knew a few Playboy models who might be jealous of them. 

“Um, hi?” was the most he had managed to squeak out. He realised later that he’d probably come off as more than a little rude, but it took most of his willpower to keep his eyes focused on her face, so he figured it was forgivable. 

“Vanya told me you would be coming today. He’s over in Studio Three, if you want to head that way. Changing rooms are back there,” she gestured over he shoulder, and then waltzed back to the front desk with a knowing smile on her face. Deciding to ignore the weird-ass receptionist for now, he headed straight to the studio. As soon as he opened the door, however, he was cut off by a loud shriek of “Not on the marley!” 

He froze, foot hovering above the threshold, and scanned the room. There didn’t appear to be anyone there, and he shivered on instinct. What if this studio was haunted by the spirits of ballet students Ivan had killed? Oh, God, he wasn’t ready to die! He was rescued from this morbid train of thought by the emergence of a familiar looking head from behind the speakers. 

“Oh. It’s just you,” he muttered.

Ivan looked less than amused. In fact, he was positively glowering at him. 

“ _Da_ , it is me. And you should not put your foot down on the floor if you value having it attached to your body.”

Swallowing, Alfred moved his foot back onto the safe carpeting. 

“Can I come in if I take my shoes off? Don’t wanna be here any longer than I have to.”

“Don’t you have ballet shoes?”

“Uh, no. I have socks?”

“That will do for today, you barbarian. Come inside.”

Alfred did as he was told and slipped off his shoes before padding inside the studio. The mirrors were more than a little weird, the way they made your reflection ripple infinitely across the walls, but it wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. Setting down his bag against the wall with a soft thump, he crossed the room to where Ivan was emerging from the tangle of wires and speakers that was the sound system. 

“Why are you not dressed?” Ivan asked upon seeing his prospective student.

Alfred pulled at the red t-shirt and blue sweats in confusion. “Braginsky, I have no idea where you’ve been living all your life, but I _am_ dressed. C’mon, let’s get this over with.” 

Ivan, to his credit, did not cry or put his fist through a wall. He did, however, overturn all of the newly repaired speakers, and this time put a sizeable dent in one of them. 

“Damn it,” he muttered. “I have to get Eduard in to fix that now.” Turning to his charge, who was looking at him in some alarm, he continued as though nothing particularly out of the ordinary had just happened. Given that he’d walked in on Ivan fixing the speakers, Alfred then correctly concluded that nothing _had._ Not for the first time that day, he wondered what he’d gotten himself into. 

“Go put these on, little comrade. And never let me see you in my studio in anything less than the proper clothes again.” Ivan handed him a pair of fitted black legging-pant-things and a white top. Alfred opened his mouth to protest, and apparently Ivan was having none of that. 

“I don’t want to hear it. Or else, when I go up in front of the Board…” He let the threat speak for itself. Mutinously, Alfred grabbed the clothes from his hands and started to stalk off towards the changing rooms, but Ivan caught his shoulder before he could escape. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be like that, little _Amerikan._ Or next time, I’ll put you in _tights._ ” 

That left Alfred horrified enough to go put on the new costume without further objection, although silently he was definitely beating Braginsky to a pulp. When he returned to the room, pivoting this way and that in front of the mirrors, he tried to convince himself that it wasn’t so bad. Really, it wasn’t much, if any tighter than his skating costumes. But the clothes were Braginsky’s, which made him feel like there was a brick in his stomach. Ivan, however, didn’t seem to notice his charge’s discomfort. Either that, or he just didn’t care (which Alfred was quick to admit to himself, was probably the truth). 

“Come here,” Ivan beckoned to the barre at the edge of the classroom. “We will start with the basics. Basics for _children_ ,” he continued, drawing out ‘children’ so as to emphasise the insult. 

Alfred rolled his eyes in response, although he did walk across the floor.

“I know the basic positions, Ivan. I do skate, jeez.” 

“Show me.” 

With the enthusiasm of someone walking to the gallows, Alfred rushed through the five basic positions, then turned to look at Ivan with an air of triumphant defiance. 

“Again,” was all Ivan said.

Sighing at the Russian’s stupidity-didn’t he realise that Alfred already knew this?-he ran through them a second time.

“Again,” was the only response he received. “Again. Again. Again.” 

After the fifth try, he finally gave up on trying to prove to Ivan his superiority through the positions.

“Fuck, Ivan, what do you want?” he cried out in exasperation. 

Ivan smirked. “Poor little Alfred. Cannot handle even the simplest of ballet positions.” With a little tut-tut, he ran his hand all the way down Alfred’s leg, adjusting his joints and muscles to make his leg turn out more. The touch made him shiver. Ivan’s fingertips were cold, he reasoned. The fingers hesitated on his ankle bone, drawing out his foot a little more. His heart gave an odd kind of flutter, a sensation that quickly disappeared when Ivan grabbed his foot without warning and squeezed. 

Agony shot through him, his nerves all turned to fire, and he let himself fall to the floor with a muted thump. Ivan released his foot, surprised. 

“You are very weak, da?”

“Fuck...you,” Alfred gasped out in reply, breathing still uneven but the control of his senses returning. “You know why that hurt, you bastard.”

Ivan continued to stare at him. “I did not, I promise. Let me see it.”

“Like hell I will,” Alfred scowled in response, tightening himself into as much of a ball as he could. If he kept his feet out of the way, Ivan couldn’t hurt him. Ivan hadn’t appeared to be interested in that answer though, and had merely continuing to extend his hand, lifted eyebrows giving him, once again, all the threat Alfred needed to uncurl. He still wasn’t giving Ivan his foot though, which made the sadistic Russian boy exasperated all over again. 

“I’m not going to do anything to your foot, you stupid child.” 

“Yeah? And why should I trust you?”

“Because seeing you lose this early in the game is not very fun to watch.” 

“Liar. You probably jack off to my suffering.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” _That_ made Alfred go ten kinds of red. “We both miss out if you don’t give me your foot, though.”

“ _You_ don’t lose anything,” Alfred pointed out. All Ivan did was smile and bend his fingers in a kind of come-hither motion. Gingerly, Alfred extended his leg, and Ivan gently cupped the heel. Alfred hadn’t let the other boy support his weight-he needed to be able to pull away-and he refused to flinch as Ivan eased the sock off of him. He swore when he saw that the blisters had reopened and that there was fresh blood seeping through the bandages.

“You did not listen to me, did you, Alfred?” Ivan asked as he started unwrapping the dressing.

“What? I did exactly what you told me to, bastard, _you_ squeezed my foot!”

“You didn’t use the present I got for you yesterday. And I got it especially for you, too.”

“Like I was dumb enough to fall for that shit,” Alfred grumbled.

“No matter,” Ivan soldiered on with a smile, as though he hadn’t heard his companion. “I have more.” He pulled out the tube of the stuff, and before Alfred could scream, spread a fingerful over his blisters (wounds, Alfred insisted). He braced himself for the stinging, burning sensation. Instead, all there was was a slight cooling feeling, like plunging into a really cold shower on a hot, humid day. 

“We call it snow cream,” Ivan told him. “Is good for pointe shoe blisters.” 

“Um, thanks. I guess.” 

Ivan stared at him, then shrugged and continued to slather Alfred’s foot in the salve. He rewrapped it with the same tenderness, then held out his hand for the other foot. 

“I can do it myself.”

“Little comrade, must we go through this again?” Refusing to look Ivan in the eye, Alfred handed over his other foot. At least Braginsky made the process relatively quick, so his humiliation wasn’t overly drawn out. As Ivan finished wrapping, Alfred caught sight of the clock on the wall.

“Oh _shit,_ ” he hissed. 

“Hm?”

“Braginsky, I’ve gotta go. I need to be at the rink in five minutes-”

“I’ll give you a lift.”

“What? Nah, it’s fine, but I’ve gotta go _now-_ ”

“I am going anyway. I have practice.”

Right. He’d forgotten about that. “But seriously, it’s no big deal.”

“And is not a problem for me. Consider it a favour.”

“A favour for what?” Alfred grumbled. “You were the one who injured my foot in the first place.”

“And you were the one stupid enough not to listen to me in the first place. We can stand around here all day argue about it, which would raise a lot of questions, or you can accept my offer and we can leave.” 

“Fine. Let’s go.” Alfred yanked his bomber jacket on and started to struggle to put his sweats on over the pants Ivan had given him. Like hell he had time to change, Alfred wanted _out._ Ivan looked at him askance, then just reached for his coat and shrugged into the sleeves. Fishing for his car keys in his pockets (Alfred hadn’t know a coat could have so many), he started heading towards the studio door. The busty receptionist had given him a hug and babbled to him for a minute or two in what Alfred presumed was Russian. 

“Cute girlfriend,” Alfred mumbled as they headed out to the car. 

“Girlfriend?”

“Uh, the receptionist? You know-” he cupped his hands over his non-existent boobs, miming their shape. 

“That is my sister,” Ivan said simply, and Alfred went as white as the snow around them and did not open his mouth the whole drive to the hockey rink. This was partially because he would not put it past Ivan to pull an AK-47 out of the backseat and shoot him through the head after the comment he had made about Ivan’s sister, and also because Ivan’s driving made Leon’s look tame. They’d skidded four times over some early morning ice, come dangerously dangerously close to hitting the guardrail, and at some point surpassed the speed limit by thirty miles  an hour. Alfred wasn’t usually a religious man, but right now he had muttered every prayer Arthur or Francis had mentioned in passing around Christmas or Easter over the course of that perilous ride. 

Apparently, it worked, because he not only arrived alive and unharmed, but also before the rest of his family did at the rink. With a just barely audible thanks to Ivan, he looped around the back and came out the front doors of the rink just moments before Arthur and Francis pulled up. Arthur hadn’t even stopped the car properly before Mattie jumped out the back door and started running up to his brother.

“What the hell, Alfred?”

“What?” His heart made a funny ba-dump noise, like it had considered stopping for an instant before deciding it would much rather be alive than dead. How could they have found out already, he’d been _so careful-_

“Mr. Wang is trying to _expel you?_ ”

Oh. That. “How angry would you be if I said yes?”

“Angrier than is healthy for the state of his well being.”

“Revenge brownies angry?” Alfred asked hopefully.

“Maybe. I’d need to ask Tim for some of his stash, though, I don’t have enough for it to show up on a screening…”

“Ooooh, Mattie’s been _smoking,_ Mattie’s been getting _stoned…._ ”

“Shut it, Al, I know for a fact you have half a pack of cigarettes in your underwear drawer.”

“Hey! I haven’t had one of those in ages! Like, three weeks! And what were you doing in my underwear drawer?”

“All mine were dirty, but I decided I’d rather go commando than have Superman’s logo on my crotch.”

“Superman is awesome! And TMI bro, I do _not_ need to know about the details of your boxer-wearing, or lack thereof.” 

“And I did not need to know that you’d stolen one of Papa’s _Playgirl_ magazines.”

“ _Mattie!”_ Alfred hissed, absolutely mortified that his brother had found it and that he’d felt the need to bring it up. Mattie and Francis had always dealt better with the whole ‘sex thing’ than he or Arthur ever had. “I was just curious!”

Matthew put his hands up in the ‘surrender’ pose. “Whoa, take it easy, Al. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“Not even Papa or Dad?”

“Not even Papa or Dad,” he promised, crossing his fingers over his heart as he did so. “And you know I wouldn’t care, right?”

Alfred rolled his eyes. “Dude, that would be pretty weird if you did,” he pointed out, gesturing towards the car where their parents sat. 

“Touché. And besides, it’s not like I didn’t take a look too.”

“TMI again, Mattie.”

His brother continued on like he hadn’t even heard him. “And regardless of who you’re attracted to, I _highly_ recommend talking to Papa about vibrators. Seriously, I had the best-”

_“Mattie!”_

Matthew grinned and shook his head. “Nope, never gets old. You and Arthur are such prudes.” 

Alfred flipped him the bird as he headed towards the car, but Matthew just laughed and waved over his shoulder. He stuck his head in the passenger side window of his parent’s car. 

“Can I walk to school?” 

“I don’t see why not,” Francis conceded. “It’s not far.” 

Arthur looked somewhat more uncertain about letting him go, but Alfred didn’t bother waiting for both parent’s permission. Slipping his headphones on, he put his head down and went straight to the main building. He was about halfway through his favourite playlist and struggling with his locker, which appeared to be jammed shut, when he someone interrupted him. 

“ _-hot blooded,-_ ”

“Mr. Jones.”

“ _-got a fever of a,_ morning Mr. Edelstein, _hundred degrees-”_

“Mr. Williams-Jones.”

_“-c’mon baby,-_ ”

“Alfred!”

“Yes?” 

“You’re going to go deaf if you keep listening to that god-awful music,” the teacher protested at the sound that was still blaring out of his headphones.

“Something got your goat this morning?” Alfred asked as he pretended to struggle to hit the  pause button so he could finish the end of the song. 

“The general nonsense I have to put up with in order to teach here, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary.” 

“I’m not in trouble again, am I?”

“By some stroke of good fortune, no. I must say I was most impressed with your performance yesterday. Most students would have found themselves in a great deal more trouble. Then again, there seems to be a special Providence that protects fools, drunkards, and you, so I suppose that is something.”

“Isn’t that a quote from some big Prussian military officer?” 

“Otto von Bismarck? No, it’s a false attribution. But we can pretend, can’t we? The best parts of history are, after all, often exaggerated or outright fictional.”

 “Your diary friend-Gilbert-taught you that quote, didn’t he?” 

“What gave you that impression?”

“The Prussian eagles he doodled everywhere were a small clue.” 

Mr. Edelstein grinned. “Yes, he would do that, wouldn’t he?” 

“You haven’t read them?”

“No, I have not.”

“So then why give them to me?”

“They weren’t mine to read-they were meant for someone else. Trust me, they will benefit you more than they ever would me.” 

“Um, sure. Whatever you say.” 

“Alfred Williams-Jones accepting an adult’s word on something. Miracles do happen,” Mr. Edelstein replied. “Will you walk with me to my office? I want to discuss your upcoming Dorian essay with you and Mr. Braginsky-you haven’t forgotten about that, have you?”

Mr. Edelstein judged, correctly, that unapologetic grin he was receiving meant that he had. However, the tirade that he surely would have embarked upon was indeed interrupted by the timely arrival of one truly hockey-crazed twin. 

“Hey, Mr. Edelstein. Can I borrow Al really quickly?” He didn’t even bother waiting for the teacher’s response before dragging Alfred by the elbow into the nearest stairwell. 

“Hey, Mattie, thanks for-”

“Cut the crap, Al. I know you weren’t at the skating rink today.”

“Uh, Mattie, you know I had private practice this morning.”

“Yeah, and I know you weren’t really there. Your toepicks always chew up the ice like crazy. So where were you?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, for anyone who cares, here's what my beta and I get up to in our spare time:
> 
>  
> 
> at least he’s not using dumb lube in bad fanfic it’s usually something like fucking whipped cream  
> I READ A BAD FANFIC ONCE THAT USED CUSTARD  
> CUSTARD  
> LUBE  
> LIKE   
> NO  
> no chocolate sauce sort of kind of makes sense  
> like that is at least a fluid  
> WHO THE HELL THINKS “GETTING LAID MOTHERFUCKER”  
> “BETTER WHIP OUT THE INSTANT JELL-O PUDDING


	8. Meltdown

“Dude, maybe the zamboni guy got there early or something, I dunno.”

“Alfred, seriously? The zamboni guy gets paid minimum wage by the school, he sure as hell isn’t going to show up early.”

“Mattie, it has literally nothing to do with you.”

“Alfred, _please!_ The school’s trying to expel you, the Olympic qualifiers are three weeks away, you punched Ivan Braginsky in the face, and Dad’s rehashing all of these old custody issues! Something’s obviously going on, and nobody’s telling me _shit!_ ”

“Because it has nothing to fucking _do_ with you!”

“Hey! Hands off Alfred!”

“Feliks, I’m just fine on my own.”

“Al, that’s kind of the whole fucking point here. You _can’t_ handle this all on your own-nobody expects you to!”

“Don’t you “Al” me, Mattie-”

“ _Please,_ Alfred, _listen to me-_ unless you _want_ Dad in the hospital again?”

That made even Feliks suck in a huge lungful of air. He guessed that if it had been anyone but Mattie standing on that staircase, they would now be at the bottom of it with a concussion and several cracked ribs. Despite kind of harbouring a desire to see that (because after that comment, Matthew, like, totally fucking deserved it), he just turned and walked back to the top of the staircase.

“C’mon, Alfred. Toris will totally be wondering where you are, and he promised to explain that huge history paper to us.” 

Matthew would be lying if he said he didn’t hate the looks that Feliks and Alfred were giving him. Alfred looked furious-he thinks the only times he ever saw Al looking madder than that were the one time Arthur forgot to come to his skating competition and when he found out that that first couple in Canada were giving them back. Feliks just looked disappointed, and honestly, he’d never seen Feliks disappointed in his life. The kid was too happy for it. 

Alfred, meanwhile, was thirty seconds away from a Full Mental Breakdown (™  Fall Out Boy  ). 

“Feliks, you don’t think that I…”

Reading the mood was, unfortunately, not a skill that neither Feliks nor Alfred possessed. 

“Don’t think that you what?”

“That my dad’s going to end up-” 

“What? Oh, my god, _no,_ Al. Matt was talking out of his ass.”

“You’re sure?” 

Feliks solemnly made an “X” over the breast pocket on his sweater. “Cross my heart,” he swore. “But if you’re still feeling down, I could definitely find some time in my afternoon to go shopping with you?”

Alfred raked his fingers through his hair, repressing a shudder for the sake of his friend’s feelings. “Nah, I’m good, Feliks. I’ve got training anyway this afternoon. But I’ll see you at lunch, right?”

“Of course! I brought this great new salad recipe that I’ve been totally dying to try. It’s got tofu _and_ quinoa in it!” 

“Sounds...nutritious?”

Feliks nodded like the obnoxious little hula dancer that Mr. Karpusi kept on his desk and occasionally flicked to induce the same kind of hypnotic sleep addiction he suffered from in his students. He swore that the mind more easily absorbed information when in a peaceful state, and his students’ test scores concurred, but that didn’t hinder the skepticism and irritation of parents and faculty members alike. 

Mercifully, the bell rang before Feliks could give them another lecture about the importance of a high-protein, low-carb, high-gluten, partially-organic, sometimes-vegan (or was it always vegetarian?) diet, or whatever was the latest fad that promised clear skin and shiny hair in all of the beauty magazines. Alfred would concede that Feliks did have great skin and hair, but he suspected that was natural, as the diets never seemed to make a difference one way or another. Personally, he’d never been so ill as when Feliks was making them do that kale-beet juice cleanse. Feliks called it “detoxification,” Alfred called it “hell.” And this was coming from someone who at Arthur’s cooking three nights a week. Pushing the thoughts of sludge-coloured breakfast out of his head, he meandered into AP Macro and vowed he was going to keep his eyes open. 

Waving at Feliks, who was disappearing into the ether of the Modern Languages wing, he sat in his usual seat in the middle row, left hand row. He also took a vow of not staring at Ivan Braginsky, which was difficult, because Ivan sat directly in front of him. The Russian boy was already there, meticulously organising his notebooks and brightly coloured pens. Resolutely turning his face to the frosted windowpane, Alfred started taking out all his materials. Ivan couldn’t take the hint. 

“Morning, Alfred.” 

“Commie.”

“Oh, dear. I thought we were supposed to be friends now?”

“Listen, _Braginsky,_ we have an arrangement. I do your stupid ballet shit, you speak for me at my hearing. We both get revenge on Mr. Wang. _Comprendez-vous, fils-de-putain_?’ 

“But you were so nice this morning,” Ivan pouted.

“ _Shut up!”_ Alfred hissed. “I never agreed to be nice in school. Wasn’t part of our deal.”

Ivan shrugged. “Suit yourself. Incidentally, have you been near your locker this morning?” 

“Um, I saw Mr. Edelstein there. Maybe around seven?”

“Oh. I suggest you go there as soon as you can. It’s making quite the scene in the hallway.”

“My locker? How the hell can my locker be making a scene?”

“Because earlier today-” Ivan began; however, Alfred would never hear the end of the sentence thanks to the ever-convenient “unless you teleport, you’re going to be late” bell. When the shrill cacophony had stopped, their Macroeconomics teacher was already present. The perky blonde waved at the class as she shuffled through her papers for last week’s quizzes. 

“Oh, Mr. Williams-Jones? You’re wanted at the office. Something about your locker.”

“Shit,” Alfred muttered under his breath as he gathered his stuff and headed out of the classroom. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, a vaguely Germanic-sounding voice was telling him to watch his language while another cackled maniacally. 

Sure enough, a moderately large group of students were milling around the corridor where his locker stood, various administrators pushing past them to get a look at his locker. After a minute or two of pushing past various gaggles of students who either didn’t have a class to get to or didn’t care about getting to it, he managed to attract the attention of one of the various teachers, who pulled him to the front of the group to survey the carnage. 

There was a massive dent in the door of his locker, and the locking mechanism had been snapped clean off. The real damage, however, lay in the inside of the locker. The contents had been covered in a thick layer of something that looked a whole lot like vomit and smelt a whole lot like breakfast.

“Charming,” Alfred muttered. He pulled his sleeves up to his elbows and started digging things out of the mess, trying to dodge the glops of oatmeal falling dangerously close to his beloved Converse. He started sorting things into piles of “probably salvageable,” “totally ruined,” and “scarcely touched.” This methodical process was implemented by the arrival of Toris.

“What a mess,” his friend said by way of greeting. “I’m pretty sure your brother would have an aneurism right now if he could smell all of this artificial maple extract.”

“Can we not talk about Mattie?” 

“Sure,” Toris replied, scraping a slightly burnt chunk off of the exterior of a notebook. It fell into the bin with a sickening squelch as he flipped through the pages of notes. “Chem looks okay to me. How’s English faring?” 

Alfred groaned. “Not well. Dorian’s totally ruined, and Richard III is pretty damn close.” He held up the remains of two very soggy paperbacks, one of which he gave a rather skeptical look. He hoped it _was,_ in fact, Richard III; otherwise that would have been a rather embarrassing moment. “What was his whole deal, anyway? He’d fuck over anyone to get what he wanted. Reminds me of…”

Toris was long used to tuning in and out of Alfred’s rants, because there was usually something more pressing than hearing about whatever minor disaster had struck the Bonnefoy-Kirkland family this week. Or last week. Or that morning, given the frequency of aforementioned minor disasters. Returning to the abysmal task of scraping porridge off of the least damaged of Alfred’s belongings, he listened once more to his fast-talking friend.

“...and so Arthur’s oatmeal’s gone up in smoke, there’s _congee_ stuck to the ceiling, and Papa’s lighting up a cigarette-that was the last time we decided to have a joint parent custody weekend-hey, Tor, you did ballet for ‘while, right?”

“Hm? Yeah. Just dabbled in it, though. Never took it too seriously. Why?”

“You ever heard of something called the Kirov ballet company?”

Toris, brain short-circuited from the shock of the statement, failed to dodge another lump of cold, mushy breakfast cereal. Dabbing at the shoulder material of the jacket (Feliks was going to _kill_ him, fabric didn’t come cheap), he recovered and soldiered on. 

“It’s one of the most famous ballet companies in the world,” he explained. “It’s a professional company in Russia, known for it’s rigour, grace, and powerful athleticism. It’s been perfecting the art for centuries.”

“Oh. I see.” Alfred had gone rather white.

“It’s practically the equivalent of what you do for skating.” 

Alfred just nodded and turned back to the unpleasant process of removing mush from his belongings. 

 

Hell, Alfred was fairly certain, was trigonometric functions with a side of Aunt Jemima's. He propped his chin up on his hand as he sank into his desk at his spot next to Kiku.

“Alfred, I am very sorry for what happened to your locker.”

“S ‘kay. ‘Ot a b’g d’l,” Alfred mumbled through a yawn, the only excuse to not to have any articulation whatsoever. 

“Do you know who committed the heinous deed?”

“I’d like to buy a thesaurus for fifty.”

“I believe this is what you would call a ‘whodunit.’”

“Ah, family Clue night,” Alfred reminisced. “You know, I’m always Colonel Mustard, and I’ve never lost.” Kiku quickly pressed forward in his questions, for fear that if he didn’t capture Alfred’s attention soon, he would be invited to join again-and refrained from pointing out the fact that the only reason Alfred had never lost was because he was very, very good at rigging decks of cards. 

“Any ideas?”

“Hockey team. Probably that asshole Braginsky.” He let out a loud snort of irritation. “Hey! He was the one who said that my locker was trashed! I bet he did it!”

“Alfred, do not jump to conclusions.”

“Oh, no, he was the one who totally did it! That’s why he used maple syrup! It stands for all things that are good and American! And oatmeal!” 

Kiku unlocked: Conspiracy Theorist Mode! It was Incredibly Unhelpful!

“Alfred?”

“Oh, I’ve got you now, you commie bastard-”

“Alfred!” 

“Yeah? Whaddya say, Kiku, wanna help me catch a commie?”

“I just have a small question.”

“Fire away!” 

“Why exactly is coating your locker in maple syrup and oatmeal an attack on American values?”

“Because maple syrup represents all that is strong and hearty about the American people! Lumberjack days, and all that! And oatmeal represents my dad!”

“Alfred, I do not know how to ask this...but isn’t maple syrup a trademark of Canada?” 

“Hey! I’ll have you know that Vermont produces excellent patriotic maple products! And besides,” he added as he fanned the sticky pages of his binder, “this stuff isn’t real maple syrup. _This_ is built on good old American capitalism and high fructose corn syrup.” 

“I don’t know if that is an insult or not, but I shall take it as some sort of perverted sense of patriotism.” 

“I’m not perverted! If you want to talk about perverted, talk to my Papa.” Alfred leaned in really closely to Kiku and Feliks. “Mattie told me the other day that the two of them talked about... _vibrators._ ” 

Feliks squealed. “Wait, Matt is gay?”

“Um, I literally have no idea.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, if he shoved a vibrator up his ass, he’s totally gay.”

Alfred and Kiku both winced.

“Can we maybe not talk about my brother like that, Feliks? It’s icky.” 

“Can we perhaps not talk about it at all?” was Kiku’s plea.

“Arthur got to you too early,” Feliks replied, shaking his head. “So, who do you think, like, messed up your locker?”

Alfred snorted. “Hockey team, who else?”

“Ivan totally would.”

“I-I mean, yeah, I can see it, but-”

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my _God-”_

“What? Mr. Wang’s not here yet, is he?”

“ _No!_ Oh my God, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me-”

“Feliks, use your big boy words and tell me what you’re freaking the fuck out over.”

“That’s where you were this morning, weren’t you? You were with Ivan!”

“Um, I-”

“You totally got in another fight!”

Alfred let himself exhale, the rib cracking pressure dissipating. Of course there would be no reason for Feliks or Mattie to know why he had been with Ivan. 

“Nah, we just argued for a bit. Same old, same old.”

Feliks’s response was cut off by the arrival of Mr. Wang, who took several pointed, deep breaths in the direction of Alfred, maple syrup scent still lingering in the air. 

 

He left geometry only to find the ever-unpleasant sight of Ivan Braginsky in the doorway. It was like some giant Russian shadow that loomed over his shoulder, mumbling things like “da, comrade, end the oppression of the Tsars!” and “work harder, you peasants!” at the same time. 

“Whaddya want,” Alfred mumbled, too tired to instigate anything. 

“Notes,” Ivan said, and shoved a pile of papers at him. Alfred stared down at them, trying to make sense of the utter nonsense scrawled across the page. 

“I knew you were a KGB agent!”

“What? Alfred, dear, I knew you were slow, but I did not know the extent.”

“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it-”

“The USSR was dissolved years ago, Alfred.”

“So? That doesn’t mean that the KGB doesn’t exist! It’s a government cover up,” he whispered. Much to his amazement, Ivan actually laughed. Not his usual “I’m completely fucking insane” giggle, not his “oh you poor unworthy soul” titter-a real laugh. For a moment, Alfred just stared.

“Braginsky, you can actually laugh. I thought you were a Terminator or something.”

“Terminator?” 

“Oh god, you haven’t lived.” 

“Explain to me some other time your silly notions of how a human can have a heartbeat and yet still be dead. What is important now is that you focus on bringing your dancing up to par before your tribunal.” 

Sometimes there was really only one word for a situation.

“Shit.” 

 

 

By the time that Alfred pulled hit the ice at 3:30, he had a headache and a half. ‘Downhill’ was the understatement of the day when looking at the day he’d had. Apparently, the world wasn’t done yet. He’d been skating his warmup laps, doing a couple of easy crossovers when Ludwig called him over to the boards. 

“What’s up?”

“What’s up? What’s up? We’re facing the biggest threat to your career, to the discipline and training I have been demanding of you for _years,_ and all you can ask is ‘What’s up?’”

“Who pissed in your Cheerios this morning, Luddy?”

“Don’t call me that. And watch your language. Here, take a look at _this,_ ” he replied, and handed Alfred a manila folder. He flicked it open, thumbing through the first few pages. 

“It’s the set list, so-oh.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Oh. That’s your song. Before your listing. The short routine’s fine, but you’re going to have to find a whole new long routine to work with. We’ve got three weeks. Move it and move it now.”

The doors to the rink exploded, opening Alfred’s eardrums to the kind of wailing cacophony that only comes from the imminent arrival of Armageddon or nuclear war. Same thing, really.

“ _Ayyyyyyyyy,_ Alfred, I am so sorry, so sorry, so sorry!”

“Feliciano?”

“It is all my fault, I was praying in church that your routine would be a success, and I must have been praying too loudly! The other skater’s coach must have heard your routine when I was praying, and I’m just so so sorry Alfred!”

Ludwig very gently took Feliciano into his arms, where his boyfriend promptly buried his face in his chest, and very fiercely glared at Alfred, who kind of wanted to bury his face in something, anything, if it would only stop the feeling that his soul was being bored into. 

“Feliciano, it’s not your fault. It’s a coincidence, I promise,” Alfred replied. He considered pointing out that his competitor was from Idaho, so the possibility that he’d been eavesdropping in a Catholic church in Massachusetts was slim to none. However, he wasn’t sure how strong Feliciano’s grasp on American geography was, so he decided to leave it at a few more murmured reassurances. Luckily, this was enough.

“Oh, Alfred, I promise it will all be okay! Luddy will make you a fabulous routine, and I will design an even better costume to go with it!” 

After watching him go, Alfred started to skate again, making sure he was a safe distance away from Ludwig before calling out-“Don’t have a problem with him calling you Luddy, do you?” If Ludwig had had less self-discipline, Alfred was certain that his coach would have flipped him the bird. As it was, they instead devoted themselves to perfecting the short routine. 

The hockey team had other plans for them. He still had half an hour left of ice time when Jack came storming out of the locker room, intent upon raising a ruckus, as his dad would have put it. 

“Get _off_ my _ice,_ princess.”

“Still have half an hour.”

“What’s that, Alfairy? I couldn’t hear you when you speak in falsetto like that.”

“I said, I’ve got half an hour left. Get off _my_ ice.”

“Gonna back up those words with some actions?”

“Don’t need to. You saw what happened with-”

“You!”

“Who the hell is that?” Jack gestured to the rapidly approaching figure.

“Ah. See, that would be my coach, Ludwig, who benchpresses cars in his spare time. And you’re on my ice. So I would fuck off, if I were you.”

“Need someone else to fight your battles, coward?”

Mercifully, Alfred didn’t need to answer that statement. It was answered for him by Ludwig leaning up against the boards.

“Out. Now.”

Apparently, Jack was a lot more receptive to requests when barked at him in a deep German voice. Alfred was willing to bet most people were. When the rest of the hockey team did arrive, he gave a passing glare to Matthew on the way to the changing room. He also caught the eye of one very angry looking Russian, who gave him a small smile on the way out. He had no idea what the crazy ass kid was planning now, but whatever it was, he was sure he wouldn’t like it. He didn’t smile back.

It was sleeting on the way home, which made him really regret not asking for a lift. Then he remembered that Mattie had been talking about vibrators with Papa, and he would really rather avoid having that conversation himself. Putting that thought on hold for a minute as he rounded the corner, he dug in his pocket for a key and came up instead with his phone, which buzzed as if one cue. 

**_Papa:_ ** _Come round the back_

**_Alfred:_ ** _Y?_

**_Papa:_ ** _You’ll see_

**New Message**

**_Leon:_ ** _Just do what he says Alfred_

**_Leon:_ ** _trust me you’ll regret it_

**_Leon:_ ** _I did_

 

Intensely curious and somewhat apprehensive, he did as he was told and approached the house from the backyard. The house did seem to be rather noisier than usual; he thought he could hear some sort of loud keening, followed by the sound of a dish breaking as he crept closer to the garage. And something that sounded awfully like a sea shanty. Maybe Arthur was having one of his Pirates of the Caribbean marathons again, even though after the first two they were all total shit. Shrugging, he pulled out his key and headed for the door, but his efforts were cut off by the door suddenly swinging open to a chorus of loud, hiccupy singing. 

 

_Óró, sé do bheatha abhaile,_

_hic!_

_Óró, sé do bheatha abhaile,_

_hic!_

_Óró, sé do bheatha abhaile,_

_HIC!_

_Anois ag teacht an tSamhraidh !_

 

The singers in question were three redheads in varying degrees of inebriation-the taller, auburn headed man was so drunk he couldn’t even sing whatever that song was, the shorter redheaded man looked mildly tipsy but was still upright, and the woman in between the two looked utterly done with both of them.

“Happy fucking holdiays, Alfred. Now I see why Americans hate Thanksgiving. This is a one time thing, you couldn’t pay me enough to haul me over here again.”

“Aunt Saorise?” 

 


	9. A Dangerous Love

 

_“_ The one and only. Francis, idiot that he is, decided that apparently Christmas wasn’t enough. In honour of your qualifying competition we had to have Thanksgiving as well.”

“Uh.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I think he’s learned his lesson.” Here she firmly grasped the darker-haired sibling by the elbow and attempted to lift him from the floor. “Come on, James, you great _amádan,_ get up.” 

Her other half promptly broke into song again as Alfred shut the door behind him, and the noise drew a very pale looking Francis from the living room. 

“They’ve been like this all evening,” he muttered. “All damn evening, how they can possibly drink that much-” he failed to note Alfred’s slight wince and continued on. “Poor Leon’s been trying to convince Arthur that he’s not a pirate for the better part of an hour, go in and see if you can deal with him. Where’s _Mathieu_?” 

Alfred shrugged in response to his father’s question, not really in the mood to discuss the brother that in his mind had fallen slightly from grace. _Who’s driving Dad mental now, Mattie?_ he asked himself as he dropped his school stuff in the hallway and headed into the living room. 

The sight was not as gory as he expected, he would confess later. Not pretty, but they’d had worse familial disputes. A glass lay in smithereens at the foot of the yellow plaster wall, but it didn’t look like either of the remaining two siblings were missing any vital limbs or grievously wounded. Arthur was, however, standing on the table and in the midst of a rousing chorus of some English shanty. 

“ _Rule, Britannia! Take that, you, you...right fucking wankers! Britannia rule the waves! You tossers, ‘ve you ever ruled a wave? Britons never shall be slaves!”_ he sang-or rather shouted-and upended the pint he was currently holding, to the cheers of his backup dancer David. Alfred was 99.99% sure that those were not, in fact, the real lyrics of “Rule, Britannia,” but rather an insult to get a reaction out of the three redheaded siblings. This theory was proven to be correct, as the eldest-James? He was almost certain it was James-made a lunge at Arthur as though to throttle him, but changed his mind halfway through in favour of dashing across the room and vomiting in the sink. David was in the middle of trying to persuade a very exasperated Leon to get up on another chair and join himself and Arthur in their antics. Leon was having no such ludicrousness. 

Francis, passing a hand in front of his eyes, waved his two present children towards the back door. “I’ll handle your father,” he muttered. 

“I’ll help,” Saorise chimed in, unceremoniously dumping her twin on the ground next to a loudly groaning Scotsman.

Deciding to leave them to the delightful task of bringing the siblings out of their delusions and cleaning the bile out of the sink, Leon and Alfred headed to the back porch, plopping down on the bench. It was freezing, but at least it was quiet. 

“You alright, Leon?” Alfred asked quietly, after a few minutes of watching the wind stirring the snow. His brother nodded, staring straight ahead. “It’s not your fault.” 

Leon looked up at him in surprise. “I know it’s not.”

“He’s always like this when his siblings come over,” Alfred muttered. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you.” 

“Dad...isn’t great with people, is he?”

“He’s good with us,” Alfred replies somewhat defensively. 

Leon rolls his eyes. “Of course I don’t mean us, you idiot, I meant...well, pretty much everyone else.” 

“Papa, and cousin Kyle and cousin Avery who sometimes come to Christmas dinner.” 

“Someone not family. And I quite frankly don’t know if we should count Papa, the way those two carry on,” Leon responds with a grin.

“So Dad doesn’t always get on well with people. So what? He’s been the best father I could ever ask for,” Alfred continues, not entirely sure he’s comfortable with what Leon’s suggesting. 

“Again, with the defensiveness. You know I love Dad as much as you do. I just meant that I wish family dinners didn’t have to always end in a drunken row.” 

“Yeah, well, maybe if his siblings didn’t treat him like utter _shit,_ we wouldn’t have that problem, would we?” Alfred snapped, and stormed off the porch and around the garage, pausing only to grab his skating bag. Leon groaned at the phantom space where his brother had been standing moments before, and briefly contemplated why everyone in his household has such a damn short temper. 

“You know he idolises Arthur, right?” The voice from behind him sounded amused. He turned to get up in order to greet his aunt properly, but she held up a hand to stop him. 

“No, don’t bother. I’m probably going to head back inside in a few minutes.” She pulled a cigarette box and a lighter out of her coat pocket, pressing one between her lips, and, to his growing incredulity, offered the box to him. He shook his head to decline, and she shrugged and lit the cigarette, blowing a trail of smoke into the wintry grey sky.

“Dirty, filthy habit,” she murmured to him before taking another drag. “So what’s bothering our Alfred?” She’d always had a soft spot for the more rambunctious of the twins-maybe it was part of being the elder twin herself. 

“He took some comments that I made about Arthur the wrong way,” he muttered.  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” she reassured him. “Alfred is a bit like his father in his overreactions. He’s probably just stormed off to the rink to cool down for a bit. Come on, shall we go inside and see if your _papa_ has managed to coax your father off the table yet?” she asked, extinguishing her cigarette. Leon followed somewhat reluctantly, dissatisfied with her answer but not quite sure why. 

 

 

Alfred resolutely pulled his bomber jacket up past his chin to cover his mouth, trying to block out the frigid air. He bunched his hands up inside his sleeves as well, regretting for the fourth time since leaving his front porch not bringing gloves with him. He also regretted not planning out beforehand exactly where he was going. He knew he was still in the neighbourhood, he couldn’t have gone all that far, but the street he was on was nigh-unrecognisable. Although he had always been fortunate enough to consider himself firmly upper middle class, the houses here put his to shame. The houses here stood four or five stories high, complete with vaulted ceilings and some with rather pretentious Greco-Roman design outside their front doors. 

Cursing, he was digging in his pocket for his phone when he was interrupted by a shout from down the street.

“Alfred!”

He groaned. “Braginsky,” he shot back, unwilling to engage in conversation at the moment.

“What brings you to my neighbourhood?”

“You live here?” 

“Hence why I said ‘my neighbourhood.’ Use your thinking cap, Alfred.”

“I wasn’t looking for you.”

“No? That seems like a rather specific denial for a harmless question.”

“You know what? Just forget it, Braginsky. What’s the fastest way to town from here?”

“Ah, I see. You are lost.”

“I’m not lost. I am temporarily geographically embarrassed.”

“Three polysyllabic words in a row. I’m impressed, Alfred.”

“Braginsky, if you could hop off right around, I don’t know, _yesterday_ , that would be great.”

“And there is the vulgar Alfred we all know and love. Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll show you the way into town-more specifically, the dance studio. And then we can train together.” 

“That is such bullshit, Braginsky. I upheld my part of the deal, which was that I would dance in the mornings with you. You uphold yours and testify for me. That’s it. Not hard.” 

“I see that the idea is less than appealing for you. I also see that you are rather poorly dressed for wandering around in the snow. I don’t think you have many options-unless you’d like to tell me exactly what you are running from?”

“All right, I’m going,” Alfred groans in reply, and starts up the path to meet Ivan, who is still smiling in that infuriatingly childish way of his. 

“So secretive, Alfred. You are like a little cat. _Kotyonok._ ” 

“Fuck you too, Braginsky.” 

“Cat.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what _kotyonok_ means. Not ‘fuck you.’”

“Dude, I am way cooler than some dumbass cat! I’m a brave superhero! Like Superman, or Thor! Have you ever seen the Avengers?” 

“Lions are cats, you know.” 

Alfred hesitated for a second. “Okay, _maybe_ I’m okay with being called a cat. But only because lions are cats. And really big and scary.”

“Lions are really quite lazy, so I suppose the metaphor fits.” 

“Nuh-uh! Lions are king of the jungle, and all that shit! Haven’t you ever seen the Discovery Channel? Or the Lion King?”

“First of all, lions don’t live in the jungle. That would be tigers. Secondly, lions, like most cats, spend most of their days napping. Thirdly, no, I’ve never felt the need to watch a particularly childish cartoon adaption of _Hamlet._ ” 

“Wait, every time I’m watching Disney I’m actually learning Shakespeare? Hah! And Dad said I was ‘uncultured swine.’” 

Seeing the slight shadow pass over Alfred’s face at that remark, Ivan tactfully diverted the topic of conversation away from their fathers. 

“I think I would rather be a bear than a lion. Bears are fearsome, strong creatures used to hard winters.”

“If by ‘used to,’ you mean ‘hibernate through,’ then yes, bears are used to winter. I think this really establishes something essential about both of us.”

“Oh? What might that be, _kotyonok_?” 

“We’re both lazy little fuckers who enjoy sleeping way more than they should.”

Again unexpectedly, Braginksy let out one of his deep, genuine laughs. Head tilted upward to the dusky winter sky; deep, throaty laughter bouncing up into the air, nothing like the sweet, childish giggle he was all too fond of. 

“You should laugh like that more often,” he suggested as the two of them climbed the steps to the studio. “It’s less...creepy than your other laugh.” 

Braginsky smiled in return, the shark’s smile, all teeth and no humour. “What if I want to be thought frightening when I laugh?”

“Then I’m not going to talk to you for this whole dance lesson,” Alfred retorted as he slipped off his shoes. He still very much liked his feet attached to his body. Braginsky didn’t say anything, just smiled at his remembrance, and headed inside to fiddle with the speakers as Alfred stretched. When he deemed his student-God, how Alfred hated being thought of as a _student_ by anyone but Ludwig, and maybe Mr. Edelstein-stretched enough to begin their lesson, he guided him over to the bar. 

“I believe we went over the positions of ballet the last time you were here. Do you remember them?”

“For the last fucking time, Braginsky, I skate. At the Olympic level. I do, in fact, know these positions.”

“Excellent. Then we can proceed to-” here he took hold of Alfred’s leg near the top of the thigh and just below the knee, lifting it so that it was perpendicular to the floor “-battements, da?”

“Da,” Alfred replied instinctively, trying to figure out why he felt so damn warm in the room. Ivan’s hand felt like it was burning a hole in his pants where he held it. 

“I’m glad to see you’ve decided to learn some of my noble language,” Ivan continued as he released Alfred’s leg, then shook his head in disapproval when Alfred let it drop. “Oh dear, and here I thought you would be picking up quickly. I want you to _hold_ that position, then we will practice the movement of the battement.” 

“You little bastard,” was all Alfred could spit out, as he raised his leg back to the appropriate angle. Ivan did not grace him with a reply, just watched him. Alfred’s leg was fine for a minute. It was twinging a bit by the second. By the third, there was a definite ache in his muscles, but nothing he wasn’t used to from skating. It wasn’t until he was halfway through his fifth minute of holding his leg at ninety degrees that his muscles finally cramped and gave out. Try as he might to hide it, Ivan was impressed. Alfred was stronger than he gave him credit for.

Alfred, who was now sitting on the floor, rubbing his quad muscles, glared up at him with all the defiance of a petulant child. “Don’t even act like you’re not surprised by that.”

“I confess, the endurance is greater than most people’s. I expected more from an Olympian, however.” Although he was usually committed to his barbed insults towards Alfred, he had to admit that his last one had lacked conviction.

“Weak, Braginsky,” Alfred snorted. It had been, and they both knew it. Ivan wondered why he’d gone for Alfred’s skating, the one thing no one could ever fault him for. Like it or not, they could not deny that if Alfred passed these qualifiers-and everyone was so certain that he would-he would be the youngest skater to ever attend an Olympics. 

“I know,” he said, and Alfred looked surprised that he’d actually uttered the words out loud. It was not like either of them to admit having been in the wrong. “I know your skating is the one thing I cannot touch, nor fault you for. You are magnificent at what you do, and I can only hope that you do not waste this chance, as mine was wasted for me.” 

Alfred sat there in stunned silence. 

“Go,” Ivan said softly. “Go and be with your family, before I change my mind and make you do a thousand sit ups.” Alfred stood somewhat shakily, as if not quite sure what he had just heard. Later, he would blame it on the surprise, whenever Ivan brought it up, but he thought in that moment he felt a touch of empathy for Ivan, and that was why he’d asked.

“I know tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, but are we still going to practice?” 

“Would you not rather be at home with your family on this special day?” 

Alfred considered telling him about Matthew-he trusted the Russian kid to keep his mouth shut about secrets, if little else-but opted in favour of a more generic statement of frustration. “Have you met my family? We’re all a little nuts,” he said with a wide grin and easy charm. “Kind of like someone else I know,” he continued, and then, with a wink, ran down the stairs and disappeared out into the starlight and snow. And for the third time since conversing with him, Ivan Braginsky found himself laughing. 

“ _Kotyonok,_ you are a strange and beautiful creature,” he murmured as he stared out at the figure fast vanishing around the corner. “And a dangerous one as well.” 

 

 

Alfred ran, feet slipping in the snow, shrugging into his bomber jacket as he ran, not wanting to stay and face Ivan’s wrath but not exactly desirous of returning home either. He settled for ducking into one of the town’s most well-loved establishments, greasy and cheap but open all day, every day. Probably made a killing off of over zealous Black Friday shoppers driving through town on the way to the outlets. Ordering a stack of pancakes and a coffee, he dug through his skating bag until he surfaced with the object that he’d been looking for. Thumbing through the pages until he found the faded black ribbon he’d used to mark his place from last time, he flipped open the weather beaten diary, shoveled a forkful of pancakes into his mouth, and read on.

 

_Dear Journal,_

 

_By all accounts, I should hate Eliza’s friend. He’s Austrian, he’s a total prick, he has a trust fund, he plays classical music, he speaks like he grew up around Shakespeare and Dickens and all those other authors I couldn’t understand for_ **_shit_ ** _in highschool-and he is simply the most beautiful person I have ever seen._

_He bites his lip when he’s thinking, and he has this dark hair that does exactly what it’s supposed to all the time, not like mine at all, except for this one cowlick of hair that he smoothes down whenever he’s feeling self-conscious, and he wears glasses and calls them ‘spectacles.’ Sure, it’s kind of precocious, but I don’t think I even_ **_know_ ** _anyone who uses the word ‘spectacles’ besides him. And he rolls it around in his mouth the way some people might roll marbles around in their mouths. It’s-dare I say it-elegant._

_Oh, but I hate him too, mark my words. Every time he comes to pick Eliza up from the rink in his big, shiny, fancy car, he always mocks me for my diction and my accent, tells me to enunciate, whatever the fuck that means, and he’s just such a prick to everyone in general that I want to stab him. I think I actually would have a long time ago, had it not been for the fact that he has such lovely eyes. Are they heather? Lavender? Lilac? I don’t know, but whatever they are, they are glacial in their magnificence._

For all of his vulgarity, this Gilbert could be quite the poet when he wanted to be. 

_And every time I see him, he reintroduces himself by his full name. ‘Roderich Edelstein.’ Yes, I get it, we’re not on a first name basis, now fuck off. Eliza always flashes me a worried look every time he says that, like she’s afraid that I’m going to snap and strangle him with that fucking cravat. Does he understand how ridiculous he looks when he’s wearing that?_

Assuming that the aforementioned ‘cravat’ was that ridiculous scarf thing, then Alfred had to take Gilbert’s side in this debate. Although on the other hand, he always thought that Mr. Edelstein’s neck would look rather naked without it. 

_I think Ludwig is the only one who gets how frustrating this whole ordeal has been for me. Honestly, sometimes I think Eliza cares more about her friendship with him than she does about our skating partnership. I mean, on a ‘thinking level,’ I know that’s not true, but I also question it every day. Anyway, Ludwig left a book from the library on my bed, one of the ones about Old Fritz. I think he knows how much I miss home, not that I’m not glad to be out, but I miss it. It’s my heritage._ **_Our_ ** _heritage._

 

_Except not really, because all he’s ever known has been Munich, never Berlin. Sunshine, rarely snow. 1871, not 1701._

 

 

He skipped ahead another while, eager to hear more about Ludwig’s childhood. Maybe there was something embarrassing he could use against him in the future.

 

_Dear Journal,_

 

_I’m writing this by candlelight, so I apologise if it’s illegible._

Alfred thought it was no more so than usual.

_I can’t believe I was so stupid. Eliza came up to me yesterday and told me-her voice was so quiet, too, like she was afraid that I’d snap at her-that Roderich wanted me to take the Iron Cross off. And the pieces finally clicked into place. Gott, I’ve been such an idiot. I know it’s the wrong war, I think there’s part of me that wants to tell him that, but God knows there were enough members of the Gestapo, of the fucking_ **_SS_ ** _, who wore these._

_I think I must really be infatuated with him if I’m even thinking about taking it off. It was Opa’s, and Vati’s after that, and now it’s mine-and I’m thinking of taking it off. It’s just that every time I see him now, and I watch those beautiful, disapproving eyes as he introduces himself as Roderich_ **_Edelstein,_ ** _and I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking of some family member that he lost the way I lost my Opa._

_I keep telling myself that there’s nothing to be ashamed of, that Opa and Vati_ **_both_ ** _fought nobly for our country-but I don’t think that’s quite true, otherwise Ludwig and I would talk about Vati the way we talk about Opa, would talk about Vati at all, would hang his portrait proudly right next to his father’s. No, I can’t pretend that this Roderich Edelstein is wrong._

_Shit, but that medal is Opa’s, not Vati’s, no matter what the world thinks-but it doesn’t matter what the world thinks, does it? I could convince a hundred people, a thousand people, I could write books and newspaper articles and make fucking power points, but it wouldn’t make a difference if he still stared at me like that. Maybe I’ll carry it in my pocket from now on._

_I wonder if I should do some sort of penance for this. I’ll likely go to hell either way._

Funny, he hadn’t pictured Gilbert as the religious sort. 

_I think that’s really why Ludwig left that book on my bed; he knows how much I love Old Fritz, I think he wants to tell me to go ahead and let this-this thing happen to me, wants to tell me to let go and love, that no one is frowning upon me for it. I think a shit ton of people might frown upon me for it, and some might do a hell of a lot more, and God might be one of them. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do about Roderich Edelstein except put my medal in my pocket and hope that he forgives me. Anyone who’s beautiful enough to pull the rug out from under your feet that quickly is a dangerous man. And yet I think I’m falling for him-just a little bit! A crush!-anyway._

 

_God help me, Eliza was right. I_ **_am_ ** _a Dummkopf._

 

Alfred wondered if the cross that Gilbert was talking about was the one that Mr. Edelstein used to fasten his cravat every morning, the one with the little cameo in the centre. He was glad they’d made up. 


	10. Defrosting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy chapter for the holidays-Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas, Joyous Kwanza, and a Happy New Year to all!

The ballet studio was unusually empty. Alfred had thought all of the identically dressed ballerinas from the previous sessions would have been there already, knowing the early starts they seemed to love. However, he found the studio dark, cold, and mysteriously empty. He pounded on the door with the heel of his palm several times, bellowing “Braginksy!” into the glass, but to no avail. The lights stayed off, and the studio silent, despite his efforts. 

“It is because it is Thanksgiving, _kotyonok_ ,” came a voice from behind him.

Alfred let out a very unmanly yelp, which he promptly tried to cover up by clapping his hands over his mouth. Ivan giggled but did not comment on it, which Alfred was glad for, because otherwise he would have had to punch him. 

“I’ve been trying to forget for most of the night,” he sighed, his heart rate now firmly under control.

“Ah. Trouble in paradise?” 

Alfred did not rise to the bait, however, choosing instead to head into the newly unlocked studio in silence. Resignedly, he headed for the small locker that had been provided for him, reaching for his practice garments, when Ivan stopped him. 

“ _Nyet_ , that will not be necessary today, Alfred. We have precious little time as it is.”

“Huh? Little time for what? We’ve got literally all day, I don’t have to be home until 2:00 at the earliest.”

“I should have clarified. _You_ have precious little time until you have to be ready.”

“Ready for _what?_ Dinner? How the fuck is this helping me to be ready for dinner?”

“Not dinner, Alfred. Your competition. I heard that one of your competitors has taken your routine.”

Alfred froze. “How the fuck did you even hear about that?”

“I will take your response as confirmation that what my spies tell me is true. No, don’t turn your head away,” he said, grabbing Alfred by the jaw. Alfred immediately lunged for the arm that was holding him captive, but hesitated as he stared into the intensity of Braginsky’s eyes. They were burning with something that wasn’t quite anger, but certainly wasn’t any less strong. Alfred might have dubbed it ‘passion,’ for lack of a better word. “Right now you are strong. You are powerful and vigorous and popular, and this makes the audience like you. You have the strength and the training-but do you have grace? Do you have finesse? You will, probably for the first time in your life, be skating against people who are your match. People who might even be better than you. Never give them that edge.”

He released Alfred’s jaw, then, striding to the centre of the room. Alfred watched him, unimpressed by his threats. He’d trained with Ludwig, one of the best in the world. He’d been skating his whole life. He’d made it this far, he wasn’t going to be conquered by some random skater with delusions of grandeur. His thoughts went out of the window when Ivan began to dance. He’d seen some of the students dancing both times he’d been here, but it had been nothing like this. Ivan needed no music to keep time, needed no notes to tell a story. Everything was gradual, soft, delicate, like a snowflake wafting gently down to land among its fellow wintry drifts. None of Alfred’s explosions of power, of perfect control. Nothing like Ivan when he was playing ice hockey, either, a violent maniac on skates hiding behind the facade of childlike innocence. No, this was something else entirely-it was Ivan at peace. 

When Ivan stopped, breathing hard, it was all Alfred could do not to stare at him. Ivan looked, for once in his damn life, non-petrifying. 

“Come, now, _kotyonok,_ are you not impressed?”

“I expect more from a member of the Bolshoi ballet,” Alfred replied with an impish grin, in the hopes of making Braginsky laugh again. Instead, Ivan’s eyebrows creased downwards into a frown. “You were displeased with my performance?” The poor guy actually sounded-dare he say it-hurt.

Alfred rolled his eyes. “No, you great oaf, it was fantastic. That’s just what you always say to me. I thought it only fair that I return the favour.” 

“I regret that, now,” Ivan murmured, but it was so low that Alfred was certain that he wasn’t meant to have heard. He let it pass unnoticed. “Will you dance for me, Alfred?”

“I thought you’d made it abundantly clear that you didn’t think I _could_ dance.”

“Not now. Not here. I want to show you how to dance so that you can skate the way that you are meant to.” 

“I think I skate just fine on my own,” Alfred muttered, and yet got to his feet anyway. “What do you have in mind?” 

Ivan smiled in the way that let Alfred know that he was in for a world of pain.

 

This assumption proved to be correct, as he was limping rather badly as he staggered up the porch steps and into his house. 

“Rough night, Alfred?” his aunt greeted him with as she descended from the upper floors. Her usual mischief wasn’t in it, though, as she appeared to be bearing a load of vomit-stained bedsheets destined for the washing machine. 

“You don’t look so hot, either,” he complained as he followed her down to the laundry room. 

“We,” she grunted as she shoved the stained linen into the machine and proceeded to douse her entire forearms with enough antibacterial soap to bleach her complexion paler than it already was, “are having an off day.”

“You don’t say.” 

“Your father cannot hold his liquor, has anyone ever told you that?” 

“Yes. You, every time you visit,” Leon deadpanned from the doorway. “Glad to see you’re alive, Alfred. Papa was worried that you’d run off and joined the circus rather than live with us anymore.”

“Looking better and better the more I consider my options.”

“Call me before you leave. I’m sure you can persuade them to take one more.”

“You can be the midget for the freak show!” Alfred suggested, which promptly resulted in Leon trying (and failing) to tackle him to the laundry covered ground. 

“Are you two going to pitch in any time soon?” Saorise demanded, hands on hips, corner of her mouth twitching as a telltale sign that she wasn’t really upset. Ushering both of them back into the main room, she informed them that Francis and Matthew could really use their help in the kitchen, especially as she and all her ilk had been informed that they were banned from anything having to do with-well, anything culinary. As the boys, with much grumbling, left to go deal with their no doubt panicked father and a sibling they didn’t particularly want to see, Saorise slipped a crisp bill into Alfred’s palm.

“For the after dinner card game,” she whispered, and Alfred grinned, pocketing the cash as Leon disappeared upstairs. 

 

Leon fished his cellphone out of his hoodie, heart hammering as he considered beating his boyfriend about the head with his own stupidity. Why, on today of all days, had he decided to come and visit him? He’d been purposefully keeping Emil away from his family-from _both_ of his families-for as long as possible. Storming up into his bedroom, he flung the window open.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed. “You absolute _moron!_ ”

“I wanted to spend Thanksgiving with my boyfriend. Is that such a crime?” the white haired teenager asked in reply. The casual tone of his off-the-cuff response was somewhat negated by his awkward position in the tree and the fact that there were several twigs in his hair. 

“Oh, just-come inside,” was all that Leon managed to splutter out, and promptly started to hustle Emil in through the window, cursing loudly as he did so.

“You know, they made this look a lot easier and significantly more romantic in the movies,” Emil replied, rather mildly.

“Gee, I don’t know, it couldn’t have been because those are the _movies,_ now, could it?” 

“Hm. Probably some merit in that,” Emil conceded, as with a final heave, he somersaulted in through the window headfirst, bloodied his lip on the corner of the shutter, and tumbled to the floor with a spectacular crash. “Not exactly the dashing entrance I had envisioned.”

A voice floated up the stairwell from the kitchen, or perhaps the living room. 

“Leon? What was that?”

“Shh!” he snarled at his boyfriend before dashing to the landing. “I’m fine! I just knocked over my desk lamp when I was standing on a chair to reach something!” His excuse is inevitably followed by a burst of laughter from downstairs, but they seem to have bought the excuse. Shutting the door, he let out a long sigh as he leant back against the door frame. 

“You’ll be the death of me,” he mumbled to the all-too-innocent looking Emil, who was sitting cross-legged on his bed. 

“Pity. I was thinking of making it up to you,” he whispered as Leon came to sit by him on the bed. 

“And exactly how were you planning on doing that?” 

Their lips met in the middle as they both leant in, neither really interested in hearing or giving an answer. Emil’s lips were still half frozen from the cold and slightly chapped, whereas Leon’s were somewhat sticky with the stewed wine-fruit compote Francis had forced him to taste before racing upstairs. Messy, but still enough to fill him with warmth. Of course, since nothing in his life could ever work out in his favour, his one moment of peace was interrupted by a loud burst of throat clearing from the doorway, revealing one smirking Frenchman.

“Ahem. Leon, were you going to introduce me?”

Leon and Emil had, by now, flown apart to opposite ends of the bed, and Emil was currently scrambling off of the bed in a desperate attempt to make the situation better. Francis held up his hand in an attempt to put the boys at ease.

“Relax, I was caught doing much worse,” he reassured them. “Now, mystery boyfriend of Leon’s, would you like to stay for dinner? We’ve got plenty of food, but I’m sure your family’s missing you.” 

“Scandinavian. Don’t celebrate Thanksgiving,” Emil managed to mumble out in reply, face still a brilliant pink.

“Stay then, won’t you?” Emil, still too scarlet to look Francis in the face, nodded hastily and headed out the door. Leon himself was not faring much better, staring resolutely at the floor, which prompted a chuckle from his part-time guardian. 

“Don’t worry, Leon, I have no intention of telling your father you have a boyfriend.” Leon’s head shot up, startled. Francis continued, as though nothing had happened at all. “Emil is a friend from school, nothing more. Believe me, I like all three of our heads where they are,” he finished with a wink before leading the two boys down the stairs.

 

The dining room table was awfully cramped with so many extra guests, which meant an awful lot of difficulty when getting in or out of one’s chair and more knocking of elbows than usual. On the upside, it meant that he could sit at the opposite end of the table from Mattie and be far enough away from his twin that avoiding conversation was actually feasible. Instead, he wedged himself between Saorise and Arthur, who sat at the head of the table, which doubled as a preventive measure towards arguments. Miracles happened. 

“This is Emil, Leon’s friend from school,” Francis announced. “He’s here to join us for his first Thanksgiving.” Everyone murmured the obligatory greetings and well wishes as the chairs were again rearranged to make room for one more. Sure, Alfred might not have had any feeling left in his liver, where his aunt’s elbow was currently planted, nor any room to move his right arm for fear of upsetting his father’s wine glass, but the more the merrier. As the food was passed around on large silver platters, Francis stood up to give the obligatory grace, tapping on his glass. 

“As I have never been very good at speeches or religion, and as the food is getting cold, I will keep this brief.” Here he paused to produce a modest bouquet of beautiful red and white roses. “I am very glad to have everyone here; I am blessed to have such a wonderful family. I have three intelligent, kind, talented sons. I have the most warm, welcoming in-laws I could ask for. I have a friend of my son who has decided that we are worthy enough to host his first Thanksgiving, which I am honoured to do. But I think I am most grateful for my husband, Arthur. He is handsome, he is smart, he is a fantastic father, and I love him to the end of the world and back. To Arthur,” he concluded as he handed over the flowers to a perfectly scarlet Brit and planted a light kiss on his lips.

“To Arthur,” the family echoed, and at last began to eat. 

“So romantic, Papa,” Matthew commented as Francis took his place at the opposite end of the table. “Just like when you two met for the very first time.” 

“What are you talking about?” Sean asked, piling potatoes on his plate. “These two nutters didn’t meet until after Arthur had already left Yao. No offense, Leon.”

“None taken,” he mumbled around a mouthful of goose as both Francis and Arthur cringed.

“No, no, that’s when they started _dating,_ ” Matt clarified. “But they met well beforehand. It all started when they met in a cafe shortly after Arthur graduated from college.”

‘ _Bonjour, monsieur._ Can I help you today?’

‘Ah, just a second,’ Arthur replied, wrestling with the overlarge black umbrella as he shook rainwater out of his hair and off of his coat. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘I was just wondering what I could get you. Coffee? Tea? A pastry? They’re fresh made, by yours truly,’ Francis offered with a wink. 

‘Tea would be great. Thanks, love,’ Arthur replied, exhausted. 

‘Love so quickly? My, my, you must really have wanted to get out of the rain.’

‘Ah-’

‘No need, no need, it was all in jest,’ Francis continued before the Englishman could get a word in edgewise, setting the cup of tea down in front of him before sliding into the opposite seat. ‘It’s only you and me here, and it’s been dreary for hours. Talk with me.’

Arthur blushed but complied. ‘I live here in London, working as a stock investor. I’d love to write someday. I grew up mostly in Birmingham, but I’ve got siblings in every single country in the UK. I did a semester abroad in Germany and a summer in Russia.’

‘Interesting. A well traveled man.’

‘And yourself?’ 

‘Well, I grew up in France, near Toulouse. I went to culinary school in Paris, moved here when I got the opportunity, and someday want to open my own restaurant. I like being in charge.’

‘I want to run my own newspaper. Maybe I’d write a review of your restaurant.’

‘Why don’t I pick you up at seven tonight, and we can discuss these plans of ours over dinner?’ 

“And so Papa picked him up with a big bouquet of roses and took him out to a fancy restaurant. They kept in touch for years, but then Papa got busy with his fashion design career, and Dad met Mr. Wang, and….well, you know the rest.”

Matthew was met with blank looks from around the table before it erupted into chaos. 

“That’s not how they met at all!” Alfred bellowed over the cacophony. 

“Yeah, I don’t buy it,” Sean chipped in. “There’s no way that Francis and Arthur have ever been that civil to one another. Hell, they’re not that civil to one another now!”

“Alright, Mattie, _I’ll_ tell the story _right,_ ” Alfred continues, chest puffed out. “It all happened when Dad’s partnership with Mr. Wang fell apart and he got kicked out of the house, but before the custody case.”

Arthur sat at the bar of the very crowded pub, slamming down his empty pint glass and demanding another with a loud, heart-wrenching sob. Yao had kicked him out last week, and with no place else to go, he’d used some of his business miles to come home to England, where alcohol was cheap and there was no chance of him encountering any traces of the lover he’d left behind. 

“My son’s gone,” he wailed loudly to the bartender, who nodded sympathetically and poured him another drink. Feeling bad for the poor man but not really wanting to get mixed up in someone else’s business, a middle aged group of football fans had been paying for most of his drinks. “I lost my son,” Arthur sobbed again. More sympathetic nods and a fresh mug of beer. 

The spiral of beer mugs and tears continued right up until last call, where he finally found himself evicted from the establishment. He’d reached the point of intoxication where he’d even managed to dredge up memories of half-remembered folk songs his mother used to sing, humming them as he stumbled through the streets. More than one fellow patron had offered him a couch to crash on, but Arthur had turned them all down. He knew he could probably rest up at his brother’s house for a few days-David was both safest and closest-as long as he could find the train station. It took him another half hour of aimless wandering, but he did indeed manage to find King’s Cross and get a late night train ticket. Cradling his duffel bag to his chest, he half-crawled inside a compartment and passed out, using his bag as a pillow, as the train rumbled into the night. 

When he woke up the next morning, his head was splitting and sunshine was streaming into his face, blinding him. Eyes watering, he wiped the tears off of his cheeks and collapsed on top of his few belongings again as the train ground to a halt. Seemed awfully bright for so early in the morning. He fumbled in his pocket for his cellphone so he could get ahold of David, and as he searched the train conductor knocked on his compartment. 

“I am so sorry, sir,” he explained with a heavy French accent, “but I’m afraid Paris is the last stop and we need everyone to exit the train now.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“This is the last stop, sir. You are in Paris.”

“Paris.”

“That is right, sir. Several passengers informed me that you were heavily intoxicated last night-you must have a headache. Are you here on business?” the man asked as he steered Arthur out of the compartment and towards the platform door. 

“So not Wales.”

“No, sir. Not Wales.” 

A moment’s pause before Arthur’s dawning realisation and inevitable outrage.

“ ** _I’m in fucking France!?_** ”

Giving up on the hungover foreigner, the conductor managed to hustle him off the train. Honestly, English people were such a nuisance. 

Half blinded and feeling quite ill, he stumbled his way into metropolitan France, the City of Light. And the City of Light it was indeed, judging by the sheer amount of sunlight. There probably wasn’t this much sunshine over the course of a year in the whole of England.

“Someone put that fucking light out,” he barked up at the sky, before his nausea finally caught up with him and he leant over a nearby railing and vomited into the rosebushes, groaning. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, and promptly heaved again. 

“ _Ça va?_ ” came a voice from behind him.

“Oh, exactly what I need.” He retched. “Bloody French.”

To his surprise, the reply came in English, albeit with a heavy accent. “Ah, you are English, _monsieur?_ It explains your drunkeness.” 

“Oh, fuck off, frog bastard. Can’t you see I’m-” another upheaval “-busy here?” 

“See, I would ordinarily be happy to leave you to your own miserable business, but those happen to be _my_ rose bushes you are vomiting into.” 

“It serves you right, growing flowers in the middle of the street instead of in a proper garden! And _roses._ Typical French,” he snorted, scarlet faced. 

“I think you will find that roses are _your_ national flower, not mine. Don’t put your objections about floral decorations on me or my country.”

“Aha! So you admit through your gardening that the English are superior,” he groaned, slumping in an undignified manner to the pavement. He’d started off so triumphantly, convinced that he’d won the argument, but the hot sunshine and loud voices were doing nothing for his head. Apparently he couldn’t be left to die in peace, however, as he found his elbow taken by the mysterious blonde-haired Frenchman and was led inside the house. 

“If you could get over your English stubbornness for one minute,” that stupid, arrogant voice continued as he lay him down on the couch in the living room, where it was mercifully cool and dark, “you’d realise that I am trying to help you.”

“Oh, really? You could have-ahhhh-fooled me.” This was met by a light smack on the arm with a dishtowel. He cracked an eyelid, just enough to witness the wry look he was receiving, courtesy of the Frenchman. But neither of them said anything more that evening. Instead, their days fell into a slight pattern: wake up, bicker, breakfast (prepared by Francis) and tea (prepared by Arthur), and then the two would go about their days. Arthur slept on the couch, and they would usually exchange insults or occasionally civilities before they retired for the evening. Nearly a week passed like this, and even with their near-daily spats and the incessant French language and food, Arthur thought he could have gotten used to it. It was nine days before the email from Yao-or rather, Yao’s lawyer-came. Nine days before he came to his senses. It was short and to the point: just telling him when the dates for his begging for partial custody of Leon would begin. He told Francis so, told him that he was fighting for the return of his son. If Francis had been surprised to find out that he had a child-or for that matter, was gay-he hid it well. He just gave him his email and his phone number and told him to keep in touch. And that was the end of it.

“Or so they thought,” Alfred continued with a conspiratorial smirk. “They kept in touch via the occasional email, and then reconnected when they met at the adoption agency for waiting children. And the rest, well,” he shrugged, “is history.” 

Sean nodded, as if this version of the story was closer to what he remembered, but now James had an objection. 

“Hang on,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Although I’ll concede that Arthur getting drunk and the two of them trading insults _does_ sound more like the Arthur and Francis I know, I still have some problems with that version of the story. Arthur can’t hold his liquor, we all know that, but he’s not stupid. His aversion to the French language would have kept him well off that train and well out of the country. Besides, I distinctly remember Arthur talking-or rather complaining-about Francis well before he even met Yao.” 

“So how do _you_ think they met?” Sean challenged him with a questioning eyebrow. 

“As I recall, it happened in an airport when Arthur was coming back from his semester or summer or whatever it was in Germany; I think Francis was visiting a friend of his there or something.”

“No, I will _not_ calm down! My luggage has gone missing, and I have a connecting flight!” Arthur shouted, gesticulating wildly at the flickering airport signs. “I don’t even know why I _have_ a layover in Switzerland,” he sighed irritably as he glared around at all of the peacefully sleeping travellers. This was the last time he was ever taking a late night flight. Or not flying direct. Screw the extra costs, this was so not worth it it wasn’t even funny. 

He glanced at his watch and very nearly kicked the desk in frustration. “And now I’ve missed my flight,” he continued on his tirade. “Fucking fantastic.” Collapsing into one of the plastic black chairs of the airport lounge, he turned his attention to the amusing sight of a man at the gate across from his yelling angrily at the attendant in French. At least someone was having as many travel difficulties as he was. Then again, he was French. Probably deserved it.

“What do you _mean_ my baggage is going to England?” Francis half shrieked at the young Germanic attendant. She gave him a blank stare in response. “Oh, _fuck me,_ I thought you Swiss spoke French. Explain to me _where my baggage is,”_ he demanded for a second time. Turning to Antonio, he groaned, “Where is Gilbert when you need him?”

“I believe he is still in Berlin. Where we left him.” 

Francis, being a man of self control, refrained from hitting one of the few people in the world who could put up with him for more than a few days at a time. Another frazzled looking airline employee came up to the desk and spoke to the attendant in rapid fire German. She nodded and switched to French again, which was then translated to English for Antonio. _Thank God for post-WWII education systems,_ he thought. They followed their less-than-helpful attendant across the airport to the gate where the very irate Englishman Francis had been staring at earlier was standing. 

“Ah, _monsieur,_ do either of you speak German?” the aide questioned. 

Both shook their heads. She turned to the English man and asked him if he spoke French. He shook his head, but judging by the look in his eyes, the answer was untruthful; he definitely understood some. Muleheaded Englishman. Francis, martyr that he was, offered to be the interpreter for the situation.“We seem to have had a baggage confusion,” she continued once the language barrier had been sorted out. 

“No shit, Sherlock,” the Englishman deadpanned under his breath. Francis couldn’t help himself, he laughed. Between the comment and the overlarge, perpetually angry-looking eyebrows, it was a comical scene. The Englishman glared at him, sparking one of Francis’s own in return. Antonio hastily stepped between them in the hopes of avoiding _another_ airport fistfight. This, he reminded himself, was why he never brought his friends anywhere. 

The aide cleared her throat. “Anyway, it seems that Mr. Bonnefoy’s luggage has mistakenly been put on Mr. Kirkland’s flight to England, and Mr. Kirkland’s luggage has just cleared security for Mr. Bonnefoy’s flight to France.”

“Well go get it then,” the Englishman-Mr. Kirkland, he supposed-demanded. “The frog can figure out his luggage on his own.” 

“I’m afraid we can’t do that sir,” she replied, not looking sorry at all. “Once luggage has cleared security, no one is permitted to touch it beyond moving it onto the plane. It’s a security risk.” 

“So then what?” 

“Well, we’ve already contacted Gatwick and requested that Mr. Bonnefoy’s luggage be held in the airport. Mr. Bonnefoy will fly with you to England and collect his luggage, and in the meantime, we’ll put your luggage on the next flight.” 

Neither Francis nor Arthur could have thought of a less ideal situation. Alas, it was the only option that the airlines were willing to agree to, and so they were forced to go along with it. After a heartfelt goodbye to Antonio, who was departing for his native Spain, Francis and Arthur boarded the cramped plane together. The first five minutes had passed in resolute, mutual silence, before the anger reached ulcer-inducing levels and bubbled up out of them in an escalating argument of blame. 

“God, you should have just stayed in France!” Arthur finally exclaimed, or rather whisper-yelled, as the flight attendant had told them that if she heard one more outburst from either of them, she would toss them out of the plane, so help her God. 

“And you should have stayed in England,” Francis muttered, unable to think of a proper reply. “Or Germany, I don’t really mind.” To his surprise, the Englishman flinched and fell silent. Rather than appreciate the quiet he’d been longing for, though, Francis found himself frowning. _Oh, you traitorous bleeding heart,_ he told himself, but tapped the Englishman lightly on the elbow anyway. 

“Something wrong?” he asked, and although Arthur did look ready to bite his head off, per usual, he hesitated this time.

“Not on great terms with my brothers,” he mumbled. “Don’t want to see them before I have to go back to university. Happy now?”

“Not really, no.” _That_ made Arthur pick up his head in surprise. Francis smirked. “The only one who gets to pick on you is me.” 

“Oh, well, that’s much better, isn’t it?” Arthur muttered, but to his surprise, he actually shot Francis a grin. “You know, if you’re half as good at annoying them as you are at annoying me, I might just have a new secret weapon up my sleeve.” 

“I didn’t know until years later that the one who had been writing all of those horribly irritating emails to me was _Francis_ until years later!” James exclaimed. “I didn’t know until after they were _married!_ ”

An uproar of laughter around the table, interrupted this time by the Welsh brother. 

“Hang on,” David cut in. “That can’t be right. How could you have met post-graduation in London, post-divorce in Paris, and during university in Zurich?” 

Arthur and Francis looked intensely uncomfortable. Arthur was twiddling his thumbs back and forth, crossing and uncrossing his legs, and refusing to look anyone in the eye. Francis sprang up from the table.

“I’ll just go and get dessert then, shall I?”

“ _Everyone_ is going to stay sitting at this table,” Saorise said in such a firm tone Francis actually sat back down. “I want to know _exactly_ what my brother and his husband have not been telling everyone in this room for so long, and why exactly they felt the need to tell so many variations of what should be such a simple story.” 

Both men were very red in the face. “Now, I want to hear which one of these stories is the truth. Very simple question.” 

“Well, you see, the truth is-”

“Don’t tell them, Francis!” 

“Arthur, your sister-”

“I don’t care what my sister wants! You don’t have to listen to her!”

“Arthur, I spent most of last night cleaning up your vomit. I feel like you owe me the story of how you met Francis.”

“Arthur just doesn’t want it told-hell, _I_ don’t want it told-because it’s rather, well, embarrassing.” 

“More embarrassing than getting on the wrong train drunk and throwing up on someone’s flowers?” Alfred asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Arthur and Francis replied in unison. Alfred let out a long, low whistle. “And for your information, Saorise, I don’t have to tell you anything!” Arthur’s face was turning an alarming shade of beetroot, and Francis knew they’d reached the critical thirty seconds before he was dealing with a full scale family feud. 

“It’s all right, Arthur, you did nothing wrong. Saorise, could you help me clear, please?” 

“It’s fine.”

“Arthur?”

“Just tell the damn story,” he reiterated, sinking into the chair like a balloon that had lost all of its air. “Otherwise she’ll never shut up about it. She still brings up stag party stories.”

“What are the stag party stories?” Matthew, Leon, and Alfred asked in perfect synchronization, leaning forward in their chairs. 

“ _Arthur,_ why don’t you finally tell us how you two met?” James and Sean half shouted, while David and Saorise fell about cackling. 

“Fine. Francis, you go get the dessert and I’ll tell the story. You never tell it right.” 

Arthur trudged up the road, David’s old bag that he hadn’t quite grown into yet banging against his leg. His siblings had told him that primary school would be fun, and he supposed it was okay, but they hadn’t told him that there would be _French_ kids there. And they hadn’t told him that they would all tease him about his eyebrows and his height. He was scuffing his toes at piles of leaves on the sidewalk before being brought out of his musings by a loud bird’s whistle from above him. 

Turning to look up at the tree, there was a girl sitting in its branches. She looked about one or two years older than he was, and she was easily the prettiest girl that he’d ever seen. She had long blonde hair, and big blue eyes, and she was wearing a pretty blue dress over white pants. She looked like the princess in every fairytale he’d read, and at a loss for what else to do, he dropped to one knee and murmured ‘my lady.’

“Lady? _Incroyable!_ The English are as incompetent as Papa says they are!” 

Arthur, realising his mistake, hurriedly stood. If there was one thing he knew, it was that one never left an enemy unchallenged. And the French were always enemies. 

“If you are so quick to throw words at those who are bigger than you, why don’t you come down and back up your words with something stronger? Or are you going to surrender, _again?_ ”

That got him moving. The mysterious Frenchman dropped out of the tree, brushing off his tunic as he did so. “And how do you propose to best me, little one? I am nearly twice your height!” This was an exaggeration, but there was more than a kernel of truth to it, Arthur acknowledged. 

“A true gentleman is ready for any chance to prove his mettle!” Upon seeing the Frenchman’s eyebrows quirk together, unfamiliar with the vocabulary word, Arthur hastily translated. “Worth. Mettle is worth.”

“I see! Well, as a gentleman instead of an uncouth English barbarian, I believe that there is only one way to fairly settle this!” Francis picked up a large, fallen branch from the grass that grew beside the footpath. “With a duel!” 

Arthur wholeheartedly agreed, taking up his own stick. And the duel began, with the fierce clacking of wood against wood. He watched Francis swing his makeshift sword towards him in a deadly attack, and he brings his own up to meet it, fast as lightning. Both children are dripping with sweat, and Arthur feels his heart race with the thrill of the duel. He looks at his foe with fresh eyes and is surprised to find him startlingly attractive; the long haircut of Francis’s silky blonde hair, although feminine, is incredibly elegant. And his eyes are bright and burning like blue sunshine. It is this moment of distraction that nearly loses him the battle; Francis swung his stick in one final arc, and had Arthur not met his weapon with equal force he might have been disarmed. Instead both swords go flying off into some bushes nearby, and Francis topples over on top of Arthur. For a moment they lie like that, beneath the summer sun, pushed flesh against the grass. The seconds pass, and Arthur stands, hands Francis his sword, and excuses himself. 

“Do you read all the tales about being knights?” Francis asked before Arthur had managed to escape.

“I read Ivanhoe. The Canterbury Tales.” 

“For me it was Charlemagne.” Arthur turned to look at him in surprise. “I’ve always thought that the idea of a knight in shining armour was terribly romantic.” 

Arthur blurted out, “I thought you were a princess. When you were up in the tree.” 

Francis stood there for a second, not quite sure what to say. He could see Arthur’sface starting to turn red, however, and as he always has, he knows what to say to coax him back down to sanity. “I think it was a great compliment, to be honoured by such a lord. Even if you _are_ English.” And although Arthur’s eyebrows were still set in an irritated ‘V,’ there was no longer any real anger inthe expression. 

“I’ll send you a copy of Ivanhoe sometime,” Arthur promised before he headed home, limping slightly on his skinned knee but fighting the urge to smile.

“And I the Song of Roland.” And they parted ways. The two consider themselves no longer enemies, but not quite friends. They are at an official state of stalemate.

They fall in and out of touch throughout the years, often with amusing encounters-including one on a train, one in an airport, and one in a cafe, although not quite the same as the stories they’ve told-but they’d always agreed that they’d never speak of how they’d met again. 

The crowd in the dining room was crying and wiping their eyes with laughter.

“You thought Papa was a girl?” 

“You had a sword fight?” 

“You were disarmed by a six year old?” 

The questions refused to cease. 

“That’s enough out of you,” Arthur muttered as Francis spooned second helpings of dessert onto everyone’s plates. But he did grant them a smile as Francis leant in and pressed a kiss to his temple. 

“You’ll always be my Ivanhoe,” he promised, and Arthur’s face lit up with a small smile.

“Always?” he asked, just to double check.

“Until every star winks out in the sky, and they extinguish us with them.” They kissed once more, and though their other guests passed around catcalls and jokes at their expense, they could not hear them. 

 


	11. Dangerous Mistakes

_Dear Journal,_

_I don’t have much time. Roderich’s going to be here any minute. I thought I should take him for coffee to apologise or something. Austrians like coffee, right? Right? I visited every tourism board online, and they all told me Vienna was famous for its coffee, but I don’t know. This doesn’t really seem like the kind of place that someone who wears waistcoats would frequent. More later._

 

_Dear Journal,_

_I’m pretty sure it’s drastically shortening my lifespan to have my heart be beating this fast. Like the heartbeat hypothesis. Anyway, not important. Roderich looked so surprised when I apologised to him, like the last thing that he’d expected to come out of my mouth was “I’m sorry.” And I told him that I hadn’t meant to hurt him, but that still didn’t change the fact that I_ **_had,_ ** _and if I ever did it again, please just tell me-I was waffling away like a total idiot, and he was just blinking at me over and over. And guess what he did next? Guess!_

_He_ **_smiled!_ ** _He actually smiled! And he put his coffee down-he’d barely touched it, you let me down, tourist sites!-and looked at me with those gorgeous violet eyes and just kept smiling. And then he said, “I think I owe you an apology too.” And I asked him why, because honestly I was just completely baffled about why he would need to be sorry for anything, and told him so. All he said was, “for misjudging you,” and then he asked me if I would be interested in watching him play the piano at a concert._

_Eliza slapped me upside the head when I told her that I was going to go watch his concert. Something about “of all the nice boys he could have fallen for, he had to go for you.” I think she’s sort of secretly pleased, though, because she keeps smiling at me in practice even when I’m fucking up our jump sequences._

_She and Francis are the only ones who know so far; I haven’t told Antonio yet because one sappy idiot going on and on about how much I’m in love with Roderich is enough. But I needed Francis’s help picking out an outfit. He certainly has style-unlike his latest fling, who seems to be going for the ‘grandpa aesthetic.’I asked Francis how his fashion conscious eyes could stand to look at it all the time, but the only answer he gave me was ‘the things we do for love.’_

_Anyway, so he dressed me up in this stupid monkey suit, and dragged me to this stupid orchestral outing, and I had to sit through a whole hour before I got to hear him play-but my God, was it worth it. I have never ever ever heard music like that before. I don’t think I’ve ever paid attention for that amount of time before. It was just...incredible. And at the reception after the performance, we made plans to go to dinner last week._

 

Alfred closed the diary-( _journal!_ ) said the little Gilbert-voice in his head-and padded to the kitchen to fix himself breakfast. Oh, he’d always had his suspicions about why Mr. Edelstein had given him the diaries, but by now the evidence was a little too pointed to ignore. A figure skater falling in love with a man he originally hated? A man he hated with unusually coloured and beautiful eyes? Shared cultural conflict, mutual antagonization, a gradual and grudging appreciation for an artistic talent? It was about as blunt as an anvil to the head.

 

Alfred placed the paring knife upright on the table and spun it on its point, letting it clatter back to the wood before picking it up again and repeating the movement. Heads he liked Ivan. Tails he didn’t. No, wait. Wrong game. All right, point towards him he liked Ivan, point away he didn’t. This time when the knife fell, the blade lazily spun until it came to a rest pointing sideways. Fan-fucking-tastic. 

“Ready to go?” Arthur mumbled, already shuffling towards the front door. Alfred followed in moody silence, steeling himself against the bitter New England air. He nursed a coffee as he did so, despite his father’s disapproving looks, and attempted to pacify him by taking a few more sips of his rapidly freezing Gatorade. (Hadn’t his dad ever heard of preheating the car?) 

They had been meandering through the icy-slick roads for about five minutes (Arthur had always been a careful driver) before Alfred worked up the courage to ask his question.

“I know you told us how you and Papa met, but how did, you know, you _know_ …?”

“I’m afraid I _don’t_ know, Alfred, so go on and use your words like a big boy.” Alfred started in surprise. “No, I’m sorry,” Arthur sighed out through his teeth. “I’m just...on edge, what with my siblings and the qualifying finals. It’s not your fault. What did you want to ask me?” 

“How did you know you were in love with Papa? I mean, you knew each other for such a long time, how’d you figure it out?” 

Arthur had gone a steadily darker shade of scarlet as the question had progressed. “Alfred, if it’s romantic advice you want, maybe I should get Francis on the line...he’s much better with this sort of thing. I know it’s early but he’d be happy to talk about-”

“No, that’s okay,” Alfred interjected hurriedly. “Everyone says I’m so much like you, you know.”

Arthur’s chest puffed up with pride. His son was coming to him for romantic advice. His son had declared himself to be like his father. His son had declared this, through his coming to Arthur for advice, to be a matter of pride. And damnit, he was not going to let his son down! 

“Well, Alfred, the most important thing about love is that it’s unique to everyone and every couple. I knew I was in love with Francis because every time I was around him I felt like I was glowing gold-you know the kind of late afternoon sunlight you get in September or October? that kind of gold-and he brought out the poetry in me. I used to write him pages and pages of declarations of love; he’ll complain about them now, but at the time he thought they were dreadfully romantic.

“Francis, on the other hand, says that the feeling was more like being on fire every time he saw me, that every time he saw me he felt like he was the sun shining. He used to call us _les petits soleils,_ you know. The little suns. Does that help?” 

_Not in the slightest,_ Alfred thought, but he nodded anyway. Arthur gave him a little smile, though whether it was genuine or an acknowledgement of Alfred’s confusion, he didn’t know. 

“For you, it might be skating,” Arthur soldiered on. “Love brings out the artistry in each of us. Francis sketches, I write. For your teacher Mr. Edelstein, it was the piano,” he remarked as he pulled into the rink parking lot. 

“How do you two know each other, anyway?” Alfred asked as he reached into the backseat. Had he been looking into the rearview mirror, he would have seen Arthur hesitate. However, in the process of digging around for one of the skates that had fallen out (he should really start zipping the bag) he missed the momentary pause.

“Ask your father,” was his only answer, which made Alfred laugh as headed inside. There were certain blessings to being easily amused. 

 

 

Apparently, one of those blessings was not the ability to skate well after a day off. His muscles were sore, he wasn’t sticking his jumps, he fell out of his turns before even two minutes of the routine had passed. Swearing viciously, he skated back to the end of the boards to start the routine over again, though not before punching them with a considerable amount of force. To his dismay, he left a dent. Oops. 

Despite considerable effort put forth in trying to push them out, all that was echoing ( _echoing)_ around in his head were his questions about Ivan. How was the man that distracting when he wasn’t even here? Remembering his father’s words from the car, he took a deep breath and considered the possibility of giving in. Worth a shot. Striking his starting pose, left of centre ice, he let his thoughts fill with Ivan. Infuriating grin. Bizarre accent. Chilly temper. Powerful elegance. Violet ice eyes. 

When he finished the routine, 7 minutes and 23 seconds later, just inside regulation rules, he found himself with three answers and a plethora of questions. One, Alfred absolutely had not lost his ability to skate. Two, Arthur was better at giving advice than he thought. Three, his father had been right, unknowingly, about him and Ivan which left him...still in uncertainty. 

“Pretty,” came a voice from behind him, and Alfred temporarily considered whether it was unethical to skate over people’s spinal cords. 

 

“Ah, the much anticipated arrival of the last known surviving specimens of the Neanderthals!” 

The aforementioned arrival looked exceptionally puzzled by Alfred’s longwinded announcement. Alfred didn’t have the heart to explain it to him, mainly because he didn’t fully understand it himself. He might have stolen that from Ivan. Not that he would ever admit to stealing insults. 

“Listen, dude, what is your problem?” 

“My _problem_ is that everyone at this entire fucking school is obsessed with you and your skating when they should be coming to our hockey games. The only reason we’re not top of the league is because _you’re_ here taking up all of our rink time-”

“I’m quite certain you do not want to finish that sentence, Davis.” Goosebump prickles ran down Alfred’s spine at the familiar accent. 

“Ivan, I appreciate it, but I can handle it.”

Ivan continued as though he hadn’t even heard Alfred. “If you are in any way, shape, or form intelligent, which I highly doubt, you will walk yourself back to the locker room and not bother Alfred again.” The player sneered but did as requested. The enormous Russian could be quite terrifying. 

“So, you took a shine to one of my insults?” Ivan asked after Davis had slammed the locker room door (the last refuge of the passive aggressive). 

Alfred coloured red. “It was all I could think of in the moment.” 

Ivan’s eyes lit up, and he gave Alfred a small smile. “So I was on your mind, then.”

“No! Yes. Sort of. I was just trying to remember what you told me about my extensions.” _Coward,_ came the little voice inside of his head, who Alfred ignored. If there was a hint of disappointment in Ivan’s eyes, he ignored that too. 

“Do they still bother you often?” Ivan turned the matter back to the immanent problem of the hockey team. “I will make them stop, you know. Just tell me.” 

“I don’t want you to make them stop.”

“Does it not bother you?”

“Yeah, it does, but-”

“Then let me help you.” 

“I don’t want your help!” That had been the wrong thing to say. Alfred watched Ivan’s face grow darker than he’d seen it in weeks, since they’d started working together. He wanted to bang his head frustratedly against the rink’s boards. Just when they’d been making progress too. 

“Ah, I see. You do not trust me, Jones?”

Ouch. Back to Jones. “No, that’s not it. But you’re already doing enough for me with the hearing and the ballet and everything!”

At least Ivan no longer looked like he was going to murder him in his sleep at the next available opportunity. “But I am offering, Alfred.” 

“I’m just-it’s-oh, _hell,_ ” Alfred said, and leant in and kissed Ivan very firmly on the mouth. His lips were very soft and slightly cold, and he held his own against them for several moments before he realised exactly what he’d done, whereupon he tore himself away, hopped the boards, and bolted for the car, only stopping to yank his skates off his feet right before he practically threw himself out the double doors. 

He wasn’t sure if he was expecting Ivan to chase after him. He wasn’t sure if he wanted him to or not. All he knew was that when he collapsed into the front seat beside Francis, his heart was in his throat and his brain was reeling with the stupidity of what he’d just done. 

“Alfred, are you all right?” Arthur asked, eyebrows knit together as he stared at Alfred, sweaty and flushed and shoeless. 

What was he going to say? That he’d just done something immeasurably stupid? That he was pretty sure whatever standing he’d had at school was now gone? That the student who’d agreed to represent him at his hearing now might have the motive to screw him over completely? 

“Just tired after the workout,” was his only reply. 

“Oh. As long as that’s all,” Arthur said, much relieved, as they pulled out of the parking lot. 

“Where’s Mattie? Doesn’t he have skating practice too?” Alfred asked in confusion.

“Francis is taking him.”

“Oh.” 

“Did something happen? You seem to be spending a lot more time with Leon recently. Not that I mind, of course!” Arthur hurriedly backtracked. “I’m really glad that you and Leon have such a good brotherly bond, especially with all of the-” here he made a vague gesture “-drama that’s been going on recently.” 

“Nothing big, Dad.” 

Arthur nodded sharply. “Good lad,” he said firmly. “Now, Francis forgot to pack your lunch-” Alfred blanched “-and I was too tired to make anything this morning, so here’s five quid for your lunch. Spend it wisely! I want vegetables on your plate!”

“Yes, Dad,” Alfred replied with a roll of his eyes. “I’ll see you after practice this afternoon.” 

He spent the morning resolutely pretending that absolutely nothing interesting or unusual was happening in his life. He worked on his chemistry homework with Kiku. He listened to Felix’s inane prattle about the disappointment that had been the Fall/Winter fashion lines, and his hopes for the spring ones. He patiently offered his advice about which colour of nail polish he thought would be more appropriate for a date to Chelle. He even shared his Oreos with Toris. Anything to keep his mind off of mind off of the fact that hours earlier, he’d made out with his arch nemesis, which he _definitely had not done._ Nope. Nope, hadn’t happened. That would be like...Batman making out with the Joker! Or Professor X making out with Magneto! Nope, nope, nope, he was not going down the X-Men debate with Kiku because he _definitely had not kissed Ivan Braginksy._

Fuck. 

 

There was only one thing to do in a situation as desperate as this, Alfred was convinced. And that was to talk to the only other guy he knew with a secret boyfriend. So, making his way across the cafeteria to where his half brother sat with his weird punk-ass significant other, he plopped down without so much as a hello. 

“Dude, we need to talk.” 

“Now?” Leon looked pained.

“Yes, now. Would I interrupt your lunch otherwise?” he retorted.

“Yes,” Leon and goth dude replied, completely deadpan. 

Alfred rolled his eyes. “Listen, this is _really important._ Like, so important that if you don’t come with me _right now,_ I’ll tell Dad you drove up to New Hampshire and bought a case of fireworks and vodka with a fake ID. Or I’ll tell him exactly who left Papa’s... _toys_ on the sofa that one time he had his business partner over for dinner. Or,” he whispered, leaning in rather close, “I’ll tell him _exactly_ what you two were doing upstairs on Thanksgiving.” 

“You’re bluffing,” Leon murmured, face gone white as a sheet. “You wouldn’t.” 

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Willing to bet two months grounded I’m not? You know that’s what Dad did that one time freshman year I came home with a hickey on my neck.” 

“Fine,” Leon huffed, clearly unhappy that he had to cut his lunch date short. “But I swear to God, Alfred Williams-Jones, you owe me one for this,” he grumbled.

Alfred just grinned. "Later, emo dude!" he shouted over his shoulder, ignoring the protests from Leon's boyfriend that he was not _emo,_ he was _indie,_ aforementioned protests fading into silence as they joined the garbage line. 

 

“How did you even know about Thanksgiving anyway?” he asked as they scraped their lunch trays off. 

“Please,” Alfred snorted. “You two are about as subtle as two birds of paradise. I saw him hiding in our tree.” 

Leon turned a little pink. “For what it’s worth, that wasn’t my idea,” he protested.

Alfred shrugged. “To each their own,” he replied, then promptly dragged Leon into an empty classroom. 

“I...may have done something very stupid today.”

Leon sighed. “How bad?”

“Bad. _Bad_ bad. Like, worse-than-anything-we’ve-ever-pulled bad.”

“Trouble with the police bad?” Leon asked, striving desperately for a casual tone of voice and cracking on the last worked, failing miserably.

“No! God, no,” Alfred conceded. “Not that bad. But still, pretty bad!” he hurriedly continued, lest Leon forget how dire the situation was. 

“Well, hurry up and tell me so we can fix it!” Leon demanded. “It can’t honestly be worse than the time we filled everyone’s mailboxes with glitter, can it?”

“Worse,” Alfred replied grimly.

“Worse than the time we put those photos of the football linebacker cuddling his teddy bear in all the school bathrooms?”

“Worse,” Alfred confirmed. “And anyway, he was a jerk, he deserved that one.”

“Touché. What about the time we swapped out all our friend’s lunches with Papa’s cooking?”

“Worse.”

“The one with the pie?” Leon continued hopefully.

“Worse.”

“What about Matthew and the handcuffs and the telephone pole?”

“Worse.”

“Uncle James and Uncle David and the whiskey and the trampoline?” Leon’s voice rose a whole octave in its desperation. 

“Worse.”

“For God’s sakes, Alfred, what did you _do_!?”

“I may or may not have made out with Ivan Braginsky.”

 


	12. Either Sadness or Euphoria

“Okay.” Leon’s voice toned upward at the end, like he was waiting for Alfred to say something else. 

“Okay? That’s it?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you not understand what a big deal this is?”

“Seemed pretty obvious to me-by the way, that was _far_ better than what happened with Matthew and the handcuffs and the telephone pole. You need a better non-numeric scale.”

“What do you _mean_ it seemed pretty obvious to you?”

“Alfred, pause. Are you having a sexuality crisis right now? Or is it just that it’s Ivan Braginsky?”

“Huh? Oh, um-”

“Because if you’re actually having some serious emotional crisis right now, I’m kind of a dickwad, and I’d really not like to be-sorry, I just assumed because of the-”

Alfred buried his head in his hands. “No, I’m not having a sexuality crisis. I’ve pencilled that in for next Tuesday. It’s, it’s _Ivan,_ Leon. You know, the complete asshole who insults my skating every opportunity he gets, and makes snide comments at me in Econ and Lit class, and-”

“That you’ve been sneaking out to see at two in the morning?” 

Alfred scowled afresh. “Does everyone know the details of my private life?” he whined. “That was supposed to be a secret!” 

Leon shrugged. “Shouldn’t have left your phone lying around where Aunt Saorise could read your texts, then, you know she’s a terrible snoop.”

“Fine.” He gritted his teeth. “Emotional crisis aside, what do you suggest I _do_ about it?”

Leon blinked twice. “Dude. Just ask him out. It’s really not that hard.” 

“Oh, yeah, just ‘ask him out’-why am I getting advice from the guy who has only just started his first relationship since the spring of eighth grade again?”

“Listen, Alfred, that’s the advice I’ve got. Now if you’ll excuse me, I was having lunch with _my_ boyfriend until you interrupted us, so I’ve got to go make it up to him now.” 

Fine. If Leon was going to be difficult, Alfred could play that game. Really, he could. And when Ivan shot him down in front of everyone and humiliated him in front of the entire school- _fuck,_ half the school probably already knew that they’d kissed, his life was officially _over_ because the gossip about his dads and his figure skating wasn’t bad enough-then he could go to Leon and rub it in his face how wrong he’d been. After, you know, probably having a breakdown. 

Also, his locker still smelt of oatmeal. And now he’d made out with the guy who’d probably done it. Fan- _fucking_ -tastic. 

 

For what was very possibly the first time in his life, skating practice was excruciatingly slow. 

“Sloppy, sloppy, _sloppy!_ ” Ludwig barked from the sideline. Alfred considered snapping back at him-after all, it wasn’t his fault they were having to come up with an entirely new long routine right before national qualifiers, was it?-but bit down on the inside of his cheek as a way of muting himself. 

“ _Alfonso?_ ” came Feli’s voice, soft and a little bit hurt, and Alfred nearly sat down on the ice then and there and threw a temper tantrum that he was positive he was entitled to. Feli only ever used his Italianised name when he was really upset. 

“Feli, everything’s fine,” he promised in an attempt to reassure the tiny coach. “I’m just stressed and having trouble focusing on the routine. You know-” here he flapped his arms around like an undignified ostrich in the hopes of conveying a problematic life atmosphere “-family, school, etc.” 

Feliciano’s eyes were very wide, and that was how Alfred knew he was in real trouble, because the poor idiot walked around with them barely even open. And if his eyes were open, then he could probably tell that Alfred was on the verge of tears (which was okay, right? Even Captain America cried sometimes and he was as cool and heroic as they came) which was not something that he really wanted to do in front of Ludwig today. 

Mercifully, whatever God Feliciano prayed to (he was pretty sure it was the Catholic one, but he’d been to Church with Papa, who was Catholic, and Dad, who was Anglican, and to be honest he couldn’t tell the difference; although, to be fair, he hadn’t really been paying much attention) must have smiled upon them, because he seemed to have noticed that Alfred was indeed about to fall apart. 

“Ludwig, why don’t you go get us some coffee?” he chirped at the German. “I really think its an _artistic_ problem Alfred’s having here, more than a technical one...a coffee will do us all some good and clear our heads, don’t you think?”

Ludwig was a wise man, and knew that one did not argue with one’s husband, and one did not argue with Feli, and one _especially_ did not argue if one’s husband was Feli. 

“ _Ja, ja._ Do you want your regular?” 

“ _Si! Grazie,_ Ludwig!” 

Alfred watched the retreating back of his puzzled and exasperated mentor with more than just a touch of relief. That relief quickly vanished when he turned back to Feli, who looked uncharacteristically stern. It was easy to forget that he’d been a former champion skater himself; he was just too _nice_.

“Alfred. Something is bothering you, and you are going to tell me what it is in the four minutes and forty three seconds that it is going to take Ludwig to fetch our coffees.” At the questioning look he Alfred sent him, Feliciano elaborated, “He’s a rather scheduled man. Now explain.” 

“I wasn’t lying about the family drama, Feli.” 

“Alfred, your family is always weird. There has to be something else bothering you.” 

“There isn’t!”

“No?”

“No!” Alfred replied, wide-eyed and blinking, trying to exude the halo of innocence that had always worked so well on Arthur when he was younger. Unfortunately for Alfred, that look did not work so well on an exhausted teenager minutes away from crying. Apparently, though, it did manage to earn some iota of pity from his coach, as Feli dug around his pocket for two biscotti, one of which he offered to Alfred. 

“Alfred?” Feli asked again, and this time the story just came spilling out of him, albeit in fragments that were not entirely coherent. Damn him for being so easily manipulated by delicious food. 

“Just...Ivan offered to help me with Yao’s hearing...and then I started ballet with him and he was such a good dancer and it was helping me skate and suddenly he’s nice even though he’s really sarcastic and I kissed him and Leon said ‘date him’ but I don’t wanna.” 

Feliciano blinked twice, processing the info dump that he had just been blessed with. 

“Oh, _Alfonso,”_ he whispered. “Have you talked to him about it?”

“Uh...I kind of…ran away afterwards,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. 

To his surprise, his coach laughed. “Arthur got to you too early,” he mumbled. “Maybe you should, though.”

“Should what?” Alfred asked, but whatever the reply was, it was overshadowed by the return of Ludwig, bearing the chalice of caffeine.

“Here,” he vaguely grunted, and put a very small styrofoam cup in Alfred’s hands. “I figured you deserved one too.” 

He wasn’t sure if it was the coffee or the grand unburdening of his feelings onto Feliciano, but he did manage to finish practice on a solid note. It was the small blessings in life. 

 

His return home was far too late for a proper dinner, so Francis just sent him upstairs with a plate of hearty casserole so he could at least attempt to finish his homework at a reasonable hour. 

“You need sleep, _mon puce,_ ” he professed, but Alfred waved off both of his parents in favour of cloistering himself away with the joys that were chemistry, literature, and economics. The oxidation reactions were a piece of cake, and he plowed through them, but the econ assignment made absolutely no sense whatsoever. He reached for his phone, about to text Ivan to ask about the assignment, and dropped his head down onto his textbook when he remembered that he couldn’t. He clicked the screen on and off, watching “ ** _3 Missed Calls: Mattie, Mattie, Mattie_** ” flicker in and out of existence. 

Today was going to be one of the days Dad had warned him about, wasn’t it? Today was one of the days where he was going to have to be the bigger man. Or something. 

Trudging down the hall, he passed in front of his twin’s door and chickened out three times, pretending he urgently needed the bathroom, before Matthew opened the door without his even knocking. 

For a moment, he just stood there, slack-jawed and probably looking like the idiot Mr. Wang was always insisting he was. To be fair, Matthew looked equally uncomfortable. 

“Twin telepathy, right?” Matthew asked, pushing the curl of his that always stuck straight out behind his ear. Alfred promptly tackled his twin into a bear hug and buried his head in his shoulder. They staggered a little in the doorway as Matthew adjusted to the impact, and then suddenly he felt his brother mirror his head on shoulder position, his t shirt wet and warm on contact-wet? 

“Holy shit, Mattie, you crying?” he asked, head snapping up and back so fast his vision went spotty for a moment.

“No,” Matthew replied mulishly, and then laughed a little bit. “God, Alfred, I’m really sorry-”

“I get it.” Now it was Matthew’s turn to jerk backwards with alarming velocity. “Twin telepathy, right?” This earned him a light punch to the arm and then the reburial of Mattie’s head on his shoulder, and Alfred hugged him twice as tightly. 

(Alfred could have sworn he heard Aunt Saorise grumbling “and thank fuck for that” from the opposing guest bedroom doorway, but chalked it up to imagination, because by the time he dragged Mattie down to his desk to help with the econ assignment, he could hear her voice wafting up from downstairs as she loudly bickered with Arthur. Then again, he was 63% certain that she and her siblings could teleport to the nearest argument or open bottle of alcohol. Usually they went hand and hand in that household.) 

 

 

 

The morning, sadly, dawned far more miserable than the atmosphere of the night before. Stalking through the crowds pooling around the metal lockers, grabbing books for their upcoming classes and gossiping about weekend plans, he stubbornly stood outside Ivan’s locker, arms folded, until he spotted the abnormally large Russian wadingtowards him.

Ivan’s eyebrows rose and the corners of his mouth turned down when he saw Alfred, giving him a look that was equal parts disapproval and surprise.

“Oi, Braginsky, I need to talk to you.” 

“All right.”

“Can we go somewhere else?”

“Why?”

“You know, somewhere private.”

“Why?” 

“Oh for God’s sakes, Braginsky; drop the act so we can at least get this over with quickly.”

Ivan giggled and Alfred flinched, remembering how nice the other boy’s laugh was when he wasn’t trying to sound as though he ate small children for breakfast on Thursdays. 

“You are still so fun to rile up,” Ivan teased, but let Alfred steer him into a currently-unoccupied classroom. “But I warn you, if I do not like what you have to say...I do not like having my time wasted, Williams-Jones.”

Great. We were back to Ivan the KGB psychopath.

“Listen, Braginsky. The Christmas Market opens this Saturday.”

“And?”

“The. Christmas. Market. Opens.” Alfred stressed every word-no, every syllable-in the hopes that Ivan would get the hint. But, sadly, the Russian’s brow furrowed; though Alfred noted with relief that it seemed to be the kind that stemmed from confusion rather than malice. 

“Would you like to go? To the market? You know, with, um, me,” he finally managed to get out past the inconveniently-lodged heart in his throat. 

“Oh,” Ivan said softly.

“Oh?” Alfred parroted back, hackles rising at the implication of possible confrontation. 

“Oh, Alfred,” the Russian repeated, before breaking into a wide smile, a real smile. “Yes, I’ll go with you to the Christmas Market.”

Alfred let out his breath in a huge _whoosh_ before realising how nervous that made him sound and turned fifty shades of red. “Oh. Um. Good! Well, ah, see you tomorrow?” 

“ _Da,”_ Ivan said, and then leant in so that his breath tickled Alfred’s earlobe. “I look forward to it,” he whispered. Alfred was pretty sure that he should not shiver when other people talked to him. He pushed the thought away for later consideration. 

 

 

 

Their feet sunk deep into the snow as they walked, Alfred a few steps ahead of Ivan, towards the centre square of the town. 

“It’s just another block this way,” Alfred offered lamely in way of conversation. 

Ivan smiled but did not add anything. Alfred groaned internally. What cosmic force had moved him to think that this was an appropriate outing with Ivan anyway? The lights up ahead offered promise, though, and he quickly drew Ivan’s attention there.

He admitted to himself that for an introduction to a proper American holiday season, he could have done a lot worse. It could have been the classic Thanksgiving, for example-drunk relatives and lots of shouting at a football game on TV. It could have been Black Friday-washing machines on sale for thirty seconds, kill the person in front of you if you want one! It could have been a New Year’s party, with even more drunk relatives (yes, Uncle James and Dad, I’m looking at you) and midnight kisses that were always regretted by every party involved the morning afterwards. 

No, the Christmas Market was a good, safe choice. And judging by Ivan’s smile, he had made the right one. The whole square was lit by fairy lights, making everything seem golden and glittering. Large white tents and small bazaar market stalls had been set up to line the sides of the square, surrounding the huge Christmas tree in the centre, bedecked with enough baubles and stars to make even Felix approve. 

It was one of his favourite parts of Christmas (anyone who said it was gaudy had another thing coming to them) and judging by the huge smile on Ivan’s face, he liked it too. Ivan looked like a child in a candy shop-speaking of which, there was definitely an edibles stall somewhere, Alfred was sure of it. He turned to Ivan, excited that Ivan enjoyed his choice of location for their outing.

“So, you like it?” he asked hopefully.

“It is perfect!” Ivan replied, and immediately grabbed Alfred’s arm and dragged him towards the nearest stall. If the two oversized children had been paying attention to anything but the plethora of Christmas joy surrounding them, they might have noticed a suspiciously talkative bush just off the beaten path. 

“Oh my _god,_ I know Ivan is totally insufferable, but they are just too cute together!” 

“Feliks, it’s not a date.” 

“That’s what _you_ think,” the blonde boy replied with a sniff.

“Sorry, Feliks, but I think I might be with Matt on this one,” Toris added, running a hand through his hair sheepishly.

“Are you willing to bet on it?” Chelle added.

“I’m in.”

“Me too.”

“I am not certain this is an ethical idea, but my pride is in favour of betting.”

“Like, what are the stakes?”

“Winners get twenty dollars each.” 

“So, like, me, Chelle, and Kiku say it is a date, and Mattie and Toris and say it’s not. Get ready to totally eat your words.” Upon seeing Ivan and Alfred slip into the first tent, Feliks hurriedly ushered them out of the bush. “We’re losing sight of them! Espionage club, goooooo!” 

“Why in the world did we ever let him be in charge of anything?” Mattie mumbled, and Toris shot him a quick grin. 

“I heard that, and it’s because you love me,” Feliks shot back over his shoulder.Matthew blushed, and promptly sent a plea upwards to the star-sprinkled sky that it wasdark enough that no one saw. He took the fact that no one commented as a sign that the stars had smiled upon him, and that it was safe to peer out of their makeshift spy structure.

Meanwhile, Alfred and Ivan had ducked into the crowded little baker’s tent and were immediately assaulted by the smell of warm caramelizing sugar. Somewhere in the clouds of sugary steam, a woman ladled hot chocolate into mugs and helpfully pointed customers toward whatever overpriced treat struck their fancy. Alfred picked up a candy cane for himself and hot chocolate for them both, while Ivan had decided on the rather dubious “Christmas popcorn.” It seemed to be popcorn mixed with Hot Tamale cinnamon dust and green M&M’s. Alfred decided not to comment, but kept shooting the mixture suspicious looks. He might have been notorious for strange combinations of food, but even he drew the line at Hot Tamales. 

The next stall showed off an impressive collection of beautiful handmade wood ornaments, and Alfred amused himself for quite some time with a rocking horses and a few toy soldiers, pretending he was commander of an army. Ivan playfully assembled an opposing army of Nutcracker toys, humming _Trepak_ all the while. 

“Date,” Feliks said decisively, watching as Ivan scooped up Alfred as a “Prisoner of War” after their mock battle and tickled him mercilessly.

“Not a date,” Matthew said decisively after Alfred fled the tent upon hearing Ivan’s tales of moving doll witchcraft.  

The two boys stopped to listen to the high school music groups for a while, and even threw a few coins in the donation bucket. Never hurt to be generous during the holiday season. Even if Alfred shifted from foot to foot the whole time, as though his boredom had created a spontaneous need for a bathroom, and Ivan nearly had a temper tantrum when they “butchered Tchaikovsky.” 

The jewelry stall yielded promising gifts for both of Ivan’s sisters, and they spent some time hunting around the art table to find something to Francis’s taste.In the ‘woolens’ tent, he’d managed to find a Canucks beanie for Matthew (or was it the Canadiens? God, Canadian hockey teams really were uninventive) and an excellent bit ofintimidation on Ivan’s part had snagged them the last two jars of marmalade and a nice green sweater for Arthur.

“He needs to wear something besides argyle, da?” he had asked, and Alfred firmly agreed. 

“Date! Date! Definitely a date!” Feliks cheered from underneath the shrubbery where they had buried themselves. 

“Shhhh! They’ll hear you!” Michelle hissed.

His face fell quickly, however, when Ivan told Alfred to go ahead to the next tent, he’d catch up in a second. Alfred had looked a little disappointed, but gone without protest as Ivan began to browse the scarves. Matthew smirked in triumph, but also couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. He had been hoping a little bit that maybe it _was_ a date, and Feliks looked so disappointed. 

They wandered for a little more throughout the market, pelting each other with snowballs as they chased each other around the Christmas tree. They made snow angels in the drifts, and for a few minutes they pointed out supposed “Christmas constellations” in the stars. Alfred kept insisting that a) the shape of the stars directly above them could definitely be arranged to form the shape of Bruce Willis facing down Alan Rickman, and b) Die Hard was totally a Christmas movie. 

It was nearly eleven before Ivan suggested that they head home. 

“Yeah,” Alfred agreed, although he sounded a little morose. “Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked with a small smile.

“ _Da_ , Alfred. It was a good introduction to American Christmas,” Ivan replied, shifting shopping bags from arm to arm. They fell into step with one another, strolling through the light snowfall. Alfred hummed ‘The 12 Days of Christmas’ under his breath and Ivan coaxed a laugh from his American counterpart when he demonstrated a jeté when Alfred got to the line about “Ten Lords-a-Leaping.” 

They were a few yards from Ivan’s house when Ivan called out for Alfred to wait. Puzzled, he did so, watching Ivan dig around in his shopping bags.

“I have something for you,” Ivan said by way of explanation, and then handed him a bulky, somewhat lumpy package. Curious, Alfred pulled at the tissue paper until he saw the fabric underneath, and a long red and white scarf with blue tassel trim emerged.

Looking somewhat bashful, Ivan explained, “I thought you looked a little cold, so I thought I would get you a scarf like mine. I am never cold while I am wearing my scarf. Do you-do you like it?” 

“I love it! Dude, this is awesome!” Alfred exclaimed.

“Like, way to ruin the mood, Al,” Feliks muttered from the bushes.

“Help me put it on?” he asked, and that garnered a nod of approval from the peanut gallery. Ivan wound the scarf around his neck in reply, and zipped his bomber jacket up as far as it would go.

“There,” Ivan said in admiration of his work. “Now you won’t be cold anymore.” 

“I-I have something for you too,” Alfred mumbled, like he was having trouble spitting the words out.

“Oh, Alfred, you did not have to-”

“Yeah,” Alfred said again, as though he were gathering his courage, and then grabbed Ivan’s cheeks and kissed him. 

(Here, Feliks took the opportunity to punch the air and whisper-yelled, ‘Fuck yeah! _Totally_ a date!’ and Matthew took the opportunity to mutter “Now who’s ruining the mood?” albeit without much venom.) 

The two boys stood there and let the wind blow away their notions of time. Alfred thought Ivan tasted like chocolate and salt and cinnamon-the flavour combination was quickly climbing the list of his favourites (maybe he would have to buy more of that Christmas popcorn) before they finally let go of one another. 

“So.”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Well.”

“Let’s do that again sometime, promise?”

Ivan laughed. “I promise. Does this mean I get to call you _Fredka_ now?” he asked.

“Fuck no!” Alfred replied, and pelted Ivan with snow as he began to chase him up the path towards Ivan’s front door.

Matthew was trying to ignore the flutters in his stomach at the triumphant smirk Feliks was sending him. 

 

Alfred managed to catch up to Ivan just steps from the front door and grabbed his elbow, spinning them around so that they toppled over into the clouds of crystalline white powder. Ivan stared up at him as Alfred leapt up onto his chest and pinned down his shoulders, eyebrows slightly raised. Alfred didn’t think he’d ever seen Ivan quite so happy before. On impulse, he closed his eyes and leant in, lightly but deliberately brushing the tips of their noses together. He felt, rather than saw, Ivan start beneath him, and rocked back on his heels, laughing. 

“What was that!?” Ivan spluttered. 

“Eskimo kisses,” Alfred crowed in reply, leaning back down so that their foreheads were pressed together. Ivan’s skin was still warm beneath his, even after hours of wandering around and rolling in the snow. The Russian beneath him then leant up to gently press his mouth against Alfred’s. It was lingering and soft, the kind of tenderness that he would have sworn Ivan didn’t have in him until maybe an hour ago.

“I think I prefer the real deal,” Ivan replied when they finally pulled away, amusement dancing in his eyes, and for once Alfred didn’t mind so much because he didn’t really feel like Ivan was laughing at him. 

“Um, I know it’s kind of late, but if you wanted to come back to my place, or something, we could totally watch some Christmas movies,” he offered.

“Unfortunately, Alfred, I am busy for the remainder of the evening. My sisters will be waiting for me; however, I’m free the day after tomorrow.” 

“Can we-”

“No, Alfred, we _cannot_ watch Die Hard.”

“Have you ever even seen Die Hard?” Alfred complained. 

“Many times,” Ivan reassured him. “Tell you what, we can watch Die Hard _after_ we watch a real Christmas movie. Don’t pout, _kotnoyok._ ” 

“Fine,” he grumbled in return, rolling off of Ivan’s lap. “I’m holding you to that,” he shouted over his shoulder as he started crunching back up the path. He promptly nearly had a heart attack when Ivan all but ran him over from behind without so much as a ‘wait!’ Before he even had a chance to chew him out for it, though, practiced hands were patiently retying the scarf around his neck. 

“It came unwound thanks to your antics,” Ivan murmured. “I don’t want you to get cold on the way home.” He finished the knot and carefully tucked the ends of the fabric into his jacket.

“Merry Christmas, Ivan,” Alfred whispered as thanks.

“Merry Christmas, Alfred,” came the reply, sure and steady and soft, snow just starting to fall again, clustering in their hair and blanketing the landscape as they sharedone final goodnight kiss. 

 


	13. Possessive Perfection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys-I'm so sorry that I took such a long break from this, I really needed to for my own health. For those of you who've stuck around, I am so grateful. For those of you who are new, welcome! I hope you guys enjoy the update!

If there were one thing Alfred loved more than any other part of skating, it was freestyling on the ice. There was nothing more freeing, more powerful, than Ludwig just letting him open up on the ice and finally breathe. He always left the rink empty of music whenever he freestyled, and instead one move flowed, one after the other, into the silence. Only that wasn’t quite true either, because when there was no music, there on the ice, he could hear it in his head. It was a shining silver string, pulling him forward, and there were gaps where he did not know the notes, but it is the song that Ivan danced to, he knew that for certain. 

He let his arms stretch, nerves pulling to the end of his fingertips as he skated, and as he tilted forward they skimmed the surface. They burned where they touched the ice and came away red and raw. He didn’t mind, though, because  _ this,  _ this is what he had been made for, and this music of Ivan’s had given him wings. 

Ludwig knew, somehow, as soon as Alfred had stopped to let his breath catch, panting silver mist into the half frozen air. “What song did you think of?” he asked, and it took a second for Alfred to place his tone, because he wasn’t used to Ludwig sounding almost- dare he say it -hopeful. 

“I don’t, sorry, I don’t really know,” he mumbled, scuffing at the ice with his toepick. “I could hum it for you, though.” Ludwig nodded for him to proceed, and Alfred followed his lead. His coach knew the piece, though, placing it as the ballet of Swan Lake, and then he was on the phone to Feliciano and talking very rapidly. Alfred still didn’t know whether this was a good thing or not, but Ludwig put him through more techniques, increasingly difficult spins that Alfred, surprisingly, found himself able to hang onto even though he usually got dizzier a lot faster. At the end of practice Ludwig even gave him an awkward one armed hug and clapped him on the shoulder. 

 

He was tucked up at his desk, doodling feathers in the margins of chemistry homework when he put the phone down and texted Ivan. 

**_Alfred: hey :P_ **

**_Commie Bastard: Hay is for horses._ **

**_Alfred: oops. shud prbly change ur contact name_ **

**_Commie Bastard: do you have to type like a drunken toddler?_ **

**_Alfred: yea_ **

**_Ivan: I’m going to pretend that you’ve listened to me and are going to type normally for the remainder of our conversation. How was skating?_ **

**_Alfred: gud. skted 2 the nu sng u tot me_ **

**_Ivan: Now you’re just fucking with me._ **

**_Alfred: Ivan Braginsky! language! (and yea, def was, lol)_ **

**_Ivan: "Все счастливые семьи похожи друг на друга, каждая несчастливая семья несчастлива по-своему”._ **

**_Alfred: hell was tht_ **

**_Ivan: all the worst Russian curse words I know._ **

**_Alfred: ….googling 4 fut. ref._ **

**_Ivan: ^J^_ **

**_Alfred: dude. thts the 1st sentence some book_ **

**_Ivan: it’s one of my favourites_ **

**_Alfred: huh. k._ **

**_Ivan: you haven’t read it_ **

**_Alfred: nah. dont rly read_ **

**_Ivan: I intend to fix that._ **

**_Alfred: lol u can try. anyway im skating swan lake_ **

**_Ivan: ….._ **

**_Ivan: ………._ **

**_Ivan: Really!?!_ **

**_Alfred: woa, dude, happy much?_ **

**_Ivan: I’m fond of the ballet._ **

**_Alfred: so uve seen it_ **

**_Ivan: I’ve lived it_ **

**_Alfred: …..?_ **

**_Ivan: I danced it. Years ago._ **

**_Alfred: rly?_ **

**_Ivan: It was the last ballet I ever danced. I was the youngest prince ever cast._ **

**_Alfred. oh. sry, dude. wnt bring it up again_ **

**_Ivan: no_ **

**_Ivan: I mean_ **

**_Alfred: thnk u could tell me it?_ **

**_Ivan: tell u what?_ **

**_Alfred: the ballet_ **

**_Alfred: duh_ **

**_Ivan: it’s a sad story. it’s all about a beautiful princess who is cursed by a sorcerer, and becomes a swan. but every night she is a princess again, although she’s trapped by her cursed lake. a prince falls in love with her, but the evil sorcerer sends his own daughter, a sort of evil twin, to seduce the prince. he does, and marries the black swan, and the beautiful princess kills herself._ **

**_Alfred. oh. thts sad._ **

**_Ivan: which swan will you be, Alfred?_ **

**_Alfred: huh?_ **

**_Ivan: which swan are you, Alfred ?_ **

**_Alfred: i thnk its a medley thng_ **

**_Ivan: goodnight, Alfred_ **

**_Alfred: wait! Ivan! im sry_ **

**_Ivan: I’m tired and going to bed. We have ballet tomorrow._ **

God, Alfred was so tired of stepping on his toes. It wasn’t like he was even trying to do it anymore, it’s just that with Ivan everything had to mean something. But. he still wanted to talk to Ivan. 

Damn, he was whipped. 

Safe topic, safe topic. Homework! Homework was a safe, boring discussion. 

**_Alfred: have u done the econ_ **

**_Ivan: yes_ **

**_Alfred: ……_ **

**_Ivan: Alfred. you didn’t_ **

**_Alfred: maybe._ **

**_Ivan: we’ll go over it in fourth period lunch tomorrow. get some sleep._ **

**_Alfred: yea ok_ **

**_Ivan: goodnight, Alfred_ **

**_Alfred: night_ **

Fuck. He hadn’t done the reading for Lit either. So aside from skating, maybe he should just chalk this whole day up to failure, he considered. Francis always told him not to go to bed angry, but he wondered what the karmic repercussions were for going to bed disappointed. 

  
  


The alarming thing about secrets and Ivan, Alfred discovered, was how rapidly both of them could spiral out of control. Lunch began innocently enough; Kiku was the first of his friends to join him as he was resolutely ignoring his father’s sandwich and devouring one of the protein shakes Ludwig fed him religiously. They shared fourth period lunch on Tuesdays, and so Kiku told him about the plans for engineering club, and they avoid the topics of national qualifiers and Alfred’s hearing and his hot and cold episodes of friendliness with Ivan and Leon in general. 

“I just...Alfred, you know I’ve always dreamed of going to a school for engineering. Computer engineering and nanotechnology is my dream, of course, but universities are reluctant to admit those without a firm grasp of the basics of mechanical.”

“Here, can I see?” Alfred asked in return, gesturing for the neatly laid diagrams of all of Kiku’s ideas. 

“There’s nothing original there, Alfred,” Kiku sighed. “Believe me, I’ve looked a thousand times. Last year, the champion’s trophy went to the group that built a fully functional mechanical arm. A mechanical arm. How do you propose we compete with that?”

Alfred stared at the equations and blueprints until numbers swam before his eyes, ignoring save for a cheery wave the arrival of Toris and Feliks. Kiku had a point. He scrubbed at them with the heels of his palms and let the stars swim before him as his mind drifted to skating. Stars. 

“Bfild a ‘ocket,” he suggested around a particularly large mouthful of chocolate soy milk and protein powder. Kiku just sat there with a polite tilt to his head until Alfred had swallowed. He was used to his friend’s abhorrent table manners. “We could build a rocket,” he repeated before he started slurping on his protein shake. “No one’s ever built a scaled rocket for this competition before; least, not in the years you’ve been doing it. It’ll be a hell of a lot of work, but definitely memorable.” 

And Kiku smiled in his quiet way that meant ‘thank you’ and ‘I appreciate you’ all at once. In retrospect, Alfred should have seen that everything was going far too smoothly for everything to continue peacefully, because that had been when Ivan had plopped his ass down and swiped half of Alfred’s sandwich. 

“Hello,  _ kotnoytok, _ ” he said by way of salutation.

“Uh,” Alfred managed to get out in a feat of grand articulation, because the others didn’t really know that he and Ivan were kind of a  _ thing _ now, and he had no idea how to bring that up delicately. Fortunately for him, though, Ivan seemed to already seemed to have an idea in mind. 

“Oh, don’t worry,  _ Fredka _ , they already know everything. They were spying on us on our date, after all.” 

Alfred felt his stomach lurch, giving pleading eyes to everyone around the table, hoping for confirmation that it wasn’t true. All he got was shifty glances. Fuck. 

“Here,” Ivan continued, as though nothing had happened at all, and flipped open his notebook to the econ assignment and started talking through it, although Alfred could hardly pay attention under the force of the collective stares of his friends. Ivan was rambling about stock markets and investment value and supply and demand or something, he wasn’t really following, and all Alfred could pay attention to was his throat slowly closing over because he felt sick, his friends knew now, they had known and hadn’t told him, they had known and probably hated him, they knew. 

His throat was so tight that when Ivan leant forward to take a bite of the sandwich Alfred couldn’t even get his mouth to form the proper words to warn him that it was never a good idea to eat whatever Dad cooked, so his mouth just hung there, useless and open and silent even as his mind screamed for him to give Ivan a warning. Ivan’s creepiest smile remained pasted on his face even as he chewed his way through the god awful mouthful of mystery meat and what appeared to be green jello (Papa would later identify it as relish, nearly have a stroke when he spied the Heinz bottle in the fridge, and throw it away cursing violently in French), the muscle jumping in his jaw the only indication of his displeasure as some of the green slime oozed out and onto his finger.

“See you later,  _ Fredka, _ ” he’d said before licking the jelly off of his finger in a manner that could only be described as lewd, sweeping his belongings off of the table and storming away, leaving the other half of the sandwich untouched, and Alfred just knew, somehow, that he thought this was Alfred’s fault.

_ Was it the sandwich? Was it me not saying anything to these assholes? Should I have talked more? Should I have stopped him from explaining econ?  _ The damning silence of the table only encouraged his thoughts to echo around in his head with an ever increasing frequency. 

“Hey, guys,” Mattie managed to say as he hovered by their table. “Bad time?” he joked, rather pathetically as well.

“You think?” Alfred hissed, before he stormed off as well. The last thing he heard was Feliks saying something about drama queens (like he had any right to talk) and Alfred was just left desperately wondering why he and Ivan just couldn’t be happy like every other normal highschool couple. 

Alfred slumped in his chair all afternoon, turning over the ache he’d felt in his chest when Ivan had gone. Feliks had offered him his favourite bubblegum and tried to pester him into telling what he’d been up to over the weekend, but Alfred’s lips were sealed. That way lay terrible ideas. Not that Feliks had picked up on those clues, choosing instead to focus on upcoming Christmas plans, and Alfred genuinely just wished that his friends would go away and that he could finally have some peace and quiet and just  _ skate.  _

He wondered if any of his friends understood what it was like to love something as much as he loved skating, and he wondered if maybe that was why he liked Ivan so much, because infuriating asshole or not, Al knew he loved ballet the same way.

 

Mattie found him curled up in a nest of blankets that evening, glasses askew, cowlick stubborn as always. 

“Hey.” Alfred immediately shoved the comic book he’d been reading under his pillow, the ratty corner of an old and worn Captain America shield cover sticking out just a little, and Matthew’s heart broke a bit. “I was gonna make hot chocolate. Want some?” Alfred made a noncommittal grunting noise which Matthew took to be a yes. “Go join Leon downstairs, I’ll be there in a second.”

Waving his still blanket-clad brother out the door, he immediately started rummaging around under the bed. Nothing but a crumpled shirt and half empty bag of  _ definitely  _ expired Cheetos. Gross, Al. The floor of the wardrobe produced contained just more heaps of dirty clothes; but at the back of the shelf where Alfred kept his pyjamas, he spied the familiar floppy dark ears of Abracadabra. Mattie dragged the plushie out of the closet and instead perched him on top of Al’s unmade bed. 

His brother would be lying if he said he hadn’t spent the whole night snuggled into the tiny bunny. 

 

Alfred and Ivan didn’t talk until chem class the next morning, Mattie looking ready to intervene at any second should either of them decide that the appropriate solution to solving their problems was to throw highly corrosive substances at one another. Luckily, Ivan seemed to be approaching with a peace offering in mind. 

“Morning, Alfred,” he said hesitantly, as though not sure how well any of his pet names would be received at the moment. 

“Morning,” Alfred replied, equally wary.

“I may have...erred, yesterday,” Ivan conceded, and then the grin was right back on Alfred’s face. 

“Nah, no biggie. My dad’s cooking really is that awful.”

“So I brought us hockey tickets?” 

“Wait, really? For when?”

“Uh, this Saturday, if you want to?” 

And honestly, Alfred didn’t even care that the school would likely be gossiping all day at his reaction, he threw his arms around Ivan in the biggest bear hug he could give. 

“You’re perfect,” he mumbled into his boyfriend’s neck, much to the other’s amusement. 

Ivan laughed, a deep rumbling sound that Alfred felt through their ribcages pressed together. “They are just hockey tickets,  _ Fredka. _ It is of little concern.”

“Wrong. They are  _ Bruins vs Canadiens  _ hockey tickets, which are golden, fuck the Habs,” he cheerfully declared.

“I’m right here, you know,” Mattie pointed out, but the smile was back in his voice.

“You are here and you are wrong,” Alfred pointed out, sticking his tongue out at his twin. 

“Come on, Ivan, back me up here as someone who actually plays hockey,” Mattie protested. “The Canadiens have the best hockey strategies in the NHL; we’ve got scorers as well as thugs on the ice.”

“Are you kidding me? You don’t remember Bobby Orr flying through the air like Superman on skates?”

“Oh, please, at some point you have  _ got  _ to get over your huge hard-on for the events of, like, a thousand years ago,” Mattie objected. 

“Please, you’re just jealous because you don’t have a true icon to your name.”

It was Ivan in the end who ended the squabble. “Of course I support whatever team my Fredka supports,” he promised, giving an affectionate squeeze to Alfred’s hand as he passed a vial of solution between them. 

Mattie dramatically clutched at his chest as though trying to hold his heart inside his body. “Wounded, Ivan, I’m wounded,” he cried over the triumphant crows of his brother.

“Even when it comes to the Miracle on Ice?” Alfred cheekily inquired as he poured more liquid in their beaker, which he was 56% sure was not supposed to be amply billowing smoke. 

“Don’t push me,” Ivan warned before caving to Alfred’s pout. “But yes, I suppose even then.” 

“You’re just bitter because you guys don’t have as many Stanley Cups as we do.” 

“Mattie, I’m ashamed to call you my brother. Following a team because of their win record is disgraceful.”

“If you’re going to go on again about how you  _ Kept the Faith _ -”

“Damn straight I’m going to-”

“Is the reaction supposed to be producing this much gas?” Ivan interjected, acting (rather terrifyingly) as the only voice of reason in the group for the second time in ten minutes. 

Both boys promptly paused in their squabble to stare at the rusty red gas which had overflowed the container and was now flowing across the lab tabletop in abundance.

“I don’t think so,” Alfred said, rather slowly. 

“By any chance is the gas we are working with rather toxic?” Mattie queried, having just started to read the many lines of warnings, several of them in all caps, written across the whiteboard at the front of the room. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah, nitrogen dioxide is a pretty toxic gas. It’s known to aggravate skin and tissues; it’s particularly harmful if inhaled and has been linked to several bronchial conditions and several asthmatic complications,” Alfred replied, still double checking their calculations to see where things had gone wrong, then realised what he had just said. “Oh. Shit.” 

Minutes later Alfred was standing outside on the field, snow crunching underneath his boots as he shifted from foot to foot and accepted hearty claps on the shoulder from classmates whose tests had been been postponed. 

“So mols look a lot like mLs,” Mattie remarked as the gathered fire department officials headed into the science wing. “Who knew?”

Ivan gave a little tilt of his head and sidled closer to Alfred, giving a clear indication of subject preferential. “Ah, I see how it is,” Mattie continued, finally catching on. “I’ll leave you two to it then, Leon’s just gotten out of math and I want to know how the plans for New Years are coming on.” He winked and made a whip noise as he departed, apparently invoking the eons-held sibling right to embarrass one’s twin at any given opportunity. Alfred glared after him with the anger of a freshly-branded bull. 

 

“I really am glad you got us the hockey tickets,” he mumbled to Ivan as they watched hordes of people continue to file out of the building. 

“I know you are,” Ivan replied, smiling bemusedly. 

“I just meant...I should have behaved differently yesterday, too. And I shouldn’t have ignored you because I felt….” he sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

“Alfred, if I objected to every time you got into a heated argument with someone or threw a hissy fit over a total non-issue, I wouldn’t have any time left in the day.” Here he paused to reach up and brush some snowflakes that had fallen off of a nearby branch out of Alfred’s hair. “And I knew that you really didn’t want to fight with me as soon as I saw you today, because you were wearing this.” 

Alfred went bright scarlet.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“Well, I was hoping you’d notice. But I didn’t want you to know that I did it on purpose. I don’t know, just...more subtle.” 

**“** Alfred, if I wanted subtle, I wouldn’t be dating you. And if you want to be subtle, no matter how much it will disappoint me, maybe next time try something other than wearing a scarf indoors.” 

“I am a disgrace to subtlety,” Alfred admitted.

“You are my disgrace,” Ivan confirmed, and Alfred wondered if the warm and floaty feeling in his chest would ever go away. 

 

Judging by the seats Ivan had managed to get for the game, he didn’t think it ever would. 

“Ivan,” he started, and his voice was filled with the kind of all-encompassing awe that is reserved for grave moments like meteor showers, ancient wonders of architecture and culture, and small children stepping inside the FAO Schwartz store for the first time, “you got us seats right behind the bench.” 

Ivan admitted the words came out somewhat garbled, as Alfred’s face was currently smushed right up against the barrier. He shrugged.

“A friend of mine from a hockey tournament gave them to me.” 

“Dude, these are  _ oh my god!”  _ he squealed as the team took the ice, and it took all of Ivan’s willpower to remind himself that he was being a good supportive boyfriend today. He would not laugh at whatever antics Alfred comes up with. Though he nearly lost it again when they skated round the ice for their warmups and Alfred screamed “I love you Chara!” at the captain through the plexiglass. He also tried not to let the slight twinge of jealousy bother him, but his  _ Fredka _ didn’t seem to mind when Ivan put an arm around his shoulders, and that relaxed him. 

The hockey game was interesting enough on its own, and Ivan made a few notes on some really exceptional plays, reminding himself to bring them up to Matthew the next time he sees him. But the real attraction of the evening was Alfred, utterly, fanatically absorbed in the game. Every time the Bruins scored a goal, Alfred was on his feet, hammering at the glass with both fists. Every time the ref so much as insinuated that somebody in black and gold had done some wrong on the ice, he was screaming obscenities at the players, even mixing in a few of the curses Francis has taught him so he’s sure the “fucking Habs” would understand. And of course, every time there was a fight, his cheeks were flushed with excitement and rage, as he whooped and groaned and grinned for each landed punch. 

Alfred was never more beautiful than when he is passionate. 

It was midway through the third period when Ivan grabbed him by the scarf and kissed him, waiting for the Kiss Cam be damned. Alfred was his. Alfred was beautiful. Alfred was his. 


End file.
